


Orange is the new Blaugrana

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: (in chapter 21), Alternate Universe - Prison, Argentina National Team, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blow Jobs, Brazil National Team, Consent Issues, FC Barcelona, Faux Sexual Assault, Fights, Gen, M/M, Mainly Barcelona and Real Madrid Players, Minor Character Death, Multi, Neymessi, Prison Sex, Real Madrid CF, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Spanish National Team, Violence, don't run away when other pairings pop up, it's meant to look like sexual assault but it is just for show, neymessi is my endgame, neymessi will happen, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 99,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neymar doesn't expect to witness a murder on his first day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Neymar Makes a Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сине-гранатовый — хит сезона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11763726) by [Kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kotokoshka/pseuds/Kotokoshka)



> I've never seen Orange is the New Black, so nothing is from that except the title.

Neymar doesn't expect to witness a murder on his first day.

"What did you see?" A guard asks him, afterwards. Guardiola is written on his nametag. ('But you can call me Pep,' the guard had said. 'Pep,' he had repeated, calmly smiling, despite the grip the man had on Neymar's collar.) And when Neymar doesn't answer right away, the guard's smile lessens. "You want to start off right, here," he says, clucking his tongue. "Be smart."

Neymar should be terrified of this man.

There are other guards circled behind them, all wearing menacing expressions, hands resting on the shiny nightsticks tucked into their belts. They're blocking out the bright light from the corridor, filling up Neymar's dingy cell while Pep presses a forearm across Neymar's throat.

Neymar should answer him.

But it's all so quiet...

Too quiet.

There should be voices floating in from the hallway, from the other guards, from the other inmates, from the rest of the prison. But it's silent as if the whole building is waiting to hear Neymar's words.

So Neymar thinks it over, thinks it over until the guard cuts off his oxygen completely and Neymar can't think anymore. He slaps weakly at the guard, gold spots starting to flash in front of his eyes. And when Pep lets go of him, Neymar falls to the dirty floor, coughing and gasping, filling his lungs with air.

"What did you see?" Pep says. "Tell me who did it," he orders, squatting down by where Neymar's still recovering his breath. He reaches out and straightens Neymar's collar, wiping his hand off on Neymar's shirt afterwards. "Help me, and I'll help you."

Neymar blinks up at him.

He could tell Pep what happened. He could tell the guards how he'd been nervously waiting in the holding cell, hands gripping the cold bars and hanging his head while wondering what was going to happen. He could tell them about the three men who'd walked by, how they'd looked completely innocuous while they discussed something under their breath.

He could tell Pep about how one man had looked at him and laughed, how he had trailed his eyes down Neymar's body and licked his lips. He could tell the guards how the man had taken a step towards Neymar's cell, pursing his lips and catcalling, making Neymar cringe in disgust.

And then Neymar could tell Pep what happened next.

That the two men behind Neymar's catcaller had exchanged looks. The one with the shaved head had pulled a knife out of nowhere, a flash of silver that Neymar caught a glimpse of as it was handed to the second.

But that it was the second, unassuming man who stepped forward, yanked hard on the catcaller's hair, and slit his throat.

Because Neymar remembers every detail.

He remembers the way the knife glinted in the dim light, the spurt of blood through the air... the way the catcaller had choked and gurgled and clawed at the man holding him, eyes rolling as the life had drained out of him...

It had been quick.

Quicker than Neymar would ever have thought.

And when it was over, the body had dropped lifelessly to the floor. The blood was everywhere, so much of it that it looked fake, dripping across the bars and spilling across the floor. Neymar had looked down, taking a step back as the puddle had threatened to touch his shoes. Then he had looked up, staring at the small, unassuming man who had just done such a vile thing.

The killer was small--that was the first thing Neymar noticed.

He was small, barely coming up to Neymar's shoulder. Slim, but not skinny, muscled arms--one of them with vibrant tattoos prominently displayed--peeking out of his short sleeves. His hair was dark, silky looking, combed back like he took care of it, and it matched his eyes. His skin was pale, smooth like porcelain, and as white as it, too.

Or it would have been except for the blood splattered across his face.

He'd stared at Neymar curiously, handing the knife back to the man with the shaved head over his shoulder. And then he'd asked Neymar the same thing Pep kept asking now. "What did you see?" His voice was low and throaty, and Neymar had swayed closer to the bars to hear him.

There was something about him.

Neymar had blinked, licking his lips. His mouth was dry, and it took a minute to gather his thoughts. He didn't feel frightened, or sad, or sick about what he had just witnessed, though he'd warily watched as the blood came within inches of his feet. No, he felt nothing. He'd looked down at the body, and then back up at the man in front of him. "Nothing," he'd whispered, making a choice, repeating himself when the words got stuck in his throat. "I saw nothing."

The man had raised an eyebrow, smiling as if they were having a conversation about the weather. And then he'd stepped back away from the man he'd just killed, leaning against the wall like he was waiting.

Neymar hadn't known why, but then, seconds after, he'd watched as guards swarmed the hallway, all of them shouting as an alarm started ringing out over the intercom. They'd shoved the man up against the wall, hands digging into his clothing, looking for a weapon they wouldn't find.

Neymar had watched, wondering where the man with the shaved head had gone.

It all seemed like something out of a movie.

A nurse had appeared, finally, checking the pulse of the man on the floor. But there was no point. He was dead, having bled out almost instantly. Nobody seemed to really care, though one guard cussed up a storm as his shoe touched the puddle of blood.

The guards had pulled the killer away then. He hadn't resisted, had never resisted as they grabbed him. He'd gone calmly, though his eyes were fiery and there was a bruise appearing on his forehead from where the guards had slammed him into the wall.

He'd winked at Neymar as he'd been taken away, or tried to wink at least, thought it was more of a blink than anything else.

Yes, Neymar remembers every detail.

And that's why, now, Neymar looks towards Pep, and the guards looming behind him. "Nothing," he repeats, shrugging. "I saw nothing." He keeps his face expressionless, refusing to give anything away.

Pep's face smooths out in return, which sends a chill up Neymar's spine.

"Okay," Pep says, sighing, backing away from Neymar. "If that's the way you want to do this," he mutters, waving a hand towards Neymar. Apparently, it's a sign, because the other guards surge forward, batons in hand.

And Neymar can only curl into a ball as he's struck over and over.

It's not the first time Neymar's taken a beating, and it probably won't be the last. But it doesn't make it hurt any less, and he claws at the floor, desperately wishing for an escape as the blows rain down on him. "Nothing, I saw nothing!" he says, over and over, as loud as he can, until eventually he stops--dazed as one of the sticks hits the back of his head.

After awhile he becomes aware of the floor shaking beneath him.

He opens his eyes, panting as he's hit in the stomach, and tries to figure out what's going on. Over the noise of the beating, he realizes there are people shouting. 'Brutality! Police brutality!' The floor is shaking because the other prisoners are banging on their cell doors and stomping their feet. 'Fucking pigs!' and other insults are mixed in with people protesting the guards' actions. 'Call the warden, call the warden, call the warden,' starts being chanted over and over.

Eventually Pep curses. "Enough," he hisses, and the others fall back and exit the cell. "This isn't over," he says, standing over Neymar and peering down at him. When there's no immediate response, the guard storms out, closing the cell door loudly behind him. "Shut up!" he yells as he walks down the corridor, banging his nightstick on the doors as he goes. He's met with jeering.

Neymar barely notices, his entire body screaming in pain. He raises a hand to his face, touching his lip cautiously. He can't feel it, entire mouth going numb, but his fingers come away bloody. "That's nice," he mumbles out, as the world starts to swim around him.

It's his last thought before the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll learn who was killed in the second chapter, but if you want to guess, that could be fun too :)


	2. G-O-O-D & C-R-A-Z-Y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Neymar wakes up, there's a man straddling his chest and patting his cheek.
> 
> “Wakey, wakey,” the man says, voice childish and sing-songy. “Time to wake up and start the day.” The hand patting his cheek reduces the pressure, turning the patting into a soft petting as Neymar opens his eyes. “We let you sleep in a little, but now it’s time to get up!” 
> 
> Everything about this should scare the fuck out of Neymar, but instead it does the opposite.

When Neymar wakes up, there's a man straddling his chest and patting his cheek.

“Wakey, wakey,” the man says, voice childish and sing-songy. “Time to wake up and start the day.” The hand patting his cheek reduces the pressure, turning the patting into a soft petting as Neymar opens his eyes. “We let you sleep in a little, but now it’s time to get up!”

Everything about this should scare the fuck out of Neymar, but instead, it does the opposite.

The man is shirtless and covered with tattoos. The words G-O-O-D & C-R-A-Z-Y are spelled out in black ink across his chest, surrounded by countless swirls and designs which spill down his arms and fill every inch of his skin except for his face. He's grinning and wearing a pair of sunglasses with leopard spotted rims, despite the fact that they're indoors.

"When they told me it was you, I didn't believe them," the man says gleefully, cold hands squishing Neymar's face together. "Look at you! You're all grown up." He plays with Neymar's cheeks some more, smooshing the skin around and then releasing it. After that, he opens Neymar's mouth and taps Neymar's two pointy canines. “You still have your little vampire teeth,” he says admiringly.

Then he bops Neymar on the nose with a finger. "Boop!"

It's been years, but Neymar would recognize him anywhere.

“Hey, Dani," Neymar says, squinting in the dim light, trying to make sense of the Roman numerals inked onto Dani’s chest. He can barely see, and it takes him a minute to realize that one of his eyes is swelling shut. "Fuck, man," he groans. "Can you get up?" He tentatively feels his ribs when his cousin complies, not entirely convinced nothing's cracked. "Good to see you, I guess."

Dani sits down cross-legged on the floor and stares at him. "Here for one day and you've already made some enemies." He clucks his tongue in disapproval. "Not too smart, little one." He presses his palms together and then taps his chin while contemplating Neymar. He also makes no move to help as Neymar struggles to sit up. "But then, if you were smart, you wouldn't have gotten tossed in here, so."

Neymar wants to say that Dani's in here, too, so that doesn't say much about his intelligence.

But he doesn't.

Because this is the man his family now refers to as Crazy Cousin Dani—the man who his aunties now use as a threat to scare his little cousins with if they don’t behave.

Also because the last thing he wants to do is antagonize someone who once used a *banana* to kill a man using racial slurs.

Neymar swallows. Dani’s looking at him expectantly, waiting. Neymar finally managed to half sit up and leans against the wall, cradling his side. He decides to focus more on Dani’s comment about enemies. "I ain't a snitch, Dani," he says defensively. "And you know it. I wasn't one when we were little and I ain't one now."

He looks around the room, squinting some more, and is surprised to see there's a group of inmates spread out watching them. Part of Dani's crew, then. One, a young looking man with a kind face, is sprawled out on his bed, feet crossed at the ankles. Another is sitting on the top bunk peering down at him. A third is leaning against the wall by the door, and two who look like they’re the muscle are in the doorway.

He doesn't recognize anyone other than his cousin. Not that he really expected to--he doesn't know anyone else on the inside.

Dani has no response to this, still tapping his chin as if deep in thought and eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. Finally, he shrugs. “Nah, you ain't smart," he says smiling widely. "Or maybe you are. Because you picked a side, didn't you?" He turns his gaze to the man leaning against the wall. "What do you think, Mar-ce-loooooo?” he asks, drawing the name out. "He choose right?"

Marcelo, a tall man with a black band holding back his Afro, crosses his arms and gives Dani a look—as if he doesn’t appreciate the way Dani’s said his name. Neymar isn’t quite sure, but he thinks this is Dani's second in command. "Picked a good side," Marcelo says confidently, tilting his head. "If he'd crossed Messi, he'd probably already be dead."

There's a rumble of agreement from the two men blocking the doorway.

"Messi?" Neymar asks, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Who's that?" He licks his lips, tasting blood, and realizes he's reopened his split lip. He prods it gingerly, wincing.

Dani laughs, taking off his sunglasses. His pupils are huge. "You don't have to play around," he says, grinning and throwing his arms in the air. "We all know it was Messi who killed Higuaín. He has people to take care of the dirty work for him, but this was personal. So he did it.” He chews on the end of his glasses, before letting them hang from his mouth. "Everybody knows it. You know it. I know it. Even the guards and fucking Guardiola know it," he mumbles out around the plastic. "They just can't prove it. Savvy?"

"You might say you've done Messi a favor by staying quiet," Marcelo says to Neymar. He smiles, showing brilliant white teeth. "And a favor from Messi, well, in here that's a good thing to have. Gives your skinny ass a little power. Even without us.” He nods at Neymar. “Yes, you picked the right side.”

Dani hums, looking like he's going to say something. But then he puts his glasses back on and slaps his thighs, obviously changing his mind. "Well, we shall see. They've got him in solitary while they try to figure out how to pin it on him. But without the weapon, and without *you*, they're going to have to let him out soon," he says, springing up.

Neymar watches him, feeling like he can almost see the energy running beneath Dani's skin. His cousin is constantly moving, jittery, unable to sit still for a second.

"It'll get recorded as some sort of accident like it always does, so they don't look like complete morons who can't do their jobs,“ Dani says. He wipes some dirt off his pants like that's going to make them any cleaner, and then claps his hands. "Nobody looks too closely at deaths around here, usually. And nobody really liked Higuaín, anyways, except the Italians, and they all transferred out ages ago."

Neymar doesn't have an answer to that, but one of the others by the door clears their throat.

“What about…?” the man says, trailing off, raising his hands up to his eyes and making little circles.

Neymar thinks he might be trying to make glasses, but it’s still a little weird.

Dani snaps his fingers. "Hmm, well, maybe you're right... That one guard, right? Martino, I think?" He looks at Marcelo this time, for confirmation, and receives a nod in return. "But Martino doesn't usually cross Messi, so... Really, nothing to worry about.”

Neymar blinks, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Or maybe he already had the headache from getting hit with one of those nightsticks…

Either way, his head is starting to hurt a lot. "And did Higuaín cross Messi?" he wonders out loud, remembering the look on Higuaín's face as the life bled out of him.

It hadn’t been pretty.

Dani scratches his head. "Wasn't really our business," he admits. "But I think it was more that he was *incredibly* incompetent. Kept fucking things up for Messi and their crew.” He looks up at the ceiling. "They were friends originally. But Higuaín had been out favor for awhile there. Something about messing up some deal with the Germans? And then the Chileans, twice?” He shrugs. "The Germans aren't even here anymore, but I think Messi was really pissed…”

“Three strikes,” Marcelo says, nodding. “I’m honestly surprised Messi waited this long to take care of it. Must be kinder than we thought.”

Neymar bites his lip, wondering how there could be anything kind about killing someone. Then he wonders if that means that Marcelo has killed people for less. "So don't piss Messi off. Got it," he says lightly, trying to calm down, a little nervous when nobody laughs.

Dani just nods seriously. "That about sums it up," he says, before prattling on. "Come on, we'll show you around. Introduce you to a few people. Oh, it'll be just like the old days." He waits patiently as Neymar climbs to his feet, though his fingers are constantly twitching. "You'll have to tell me how everybody is, back home. Little Daniel and Victoria and Joana and Dina,” he says, rattling off a ton of names as he ticks them off on his fingers one by one.

Neymar uses the sink against the wall to heave himself up.

Thankfully it’s bolted to the wall and doesn’t move, allowing him to cling to it and slowly climb up it. Once he’s standing, he keeps a hand on it, trying to hold himself up. His vision swims for a moment, and his stomach threatens to empty itself, but things settle once Neymar takes a few breaths. “Sure, Dani,” he says breathlessly. “Whatever you want.”

Dani watches him for a minute and then laughs. "Rafa," Dani says, and the man on Neymar's bed gracefully gets to his feet and obediently comes to Neymar's side.

Neymar squints weakly at him, wondering what’s happening, but Rafa only slings Neymar's arm around his shoulders and helps carry his weight. "Thanks," Neymar mutters, receiving only a nod in return.

Dani claps his hands again. "Shall we?" he asks, not waiting for a response. He strides out of the cell, singing some old song, clapping his hands after every few words. The man on the top bunk jumps down and follows him, and the two in the doorway part to follow both of them.

Marcelo cocks his head in the direction of the door, waiting.

After a few seconds, Neymar gathers his strength, and with Rafa's help, starts to stumble out of his cell. He has to admit, as Marcelo falls into step behind them, that he’s not that eager to explore his new home.

But he doesn’t have a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep Messi killed Higuaín. We all know why lol. Hope you're enjoying this :) Chapter three will be a bit of a confrontation, as well as learning about some of the other inmates! xo


	3. Don't Ever Fuck With Masche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on vacation so you get this a day early :)

Neymar tries not to stare as they walk down the hall, but the truth is, he can’t help it.

Everything is still so new. Different. Depressing.

This is where he’s going to be living, after all. This bleak place filled with strange men and iron bars, where he’s going to spend day after day, week after week, month after month…

And year after year...

But he doesn’t know anything about it, really. It’s not like the guards gave him a tour, especially after what happened with Messi. No, they basically dragged him from the holding cell to his official cell, and then they interrogated the shit out of him. Nobody told him the daily routine, or what was expected of him. Where the cafeteria was, or where he was supposed to go. What he was, or wasn’t, allowed to do.

And that’s why he’s so fucking grateful that Dani’s here.

Because Dani may be batshit crazy, but he’s family. And he’s already taken Neymar under his wing.

So things could be a lot worse.

Especially since the Brazilians seem to have a reputation, at least from what Neymar can tell. And not a good one: A Don’t-You-Fucking-Mess-With-Me reputation.

But then again, everyone in here seems to have a reputation. They’re in prison for a reason, after all. Neymar knows he’s in with dangerous criminals—murderers and rapists and thieves… Maybe some others for lesser crimes, but there aren’t that many, and he can’t tell just by looking, who’s done what.

So Neymar keeps his eyes open, tries to learn, counts the cells they pass. He sticks with Rafa and Marcelo and doesn’t try to bump into anyone along the way. He respectfully listens to Dani ramble on about the gym and the laundry and the cafeteria. “And I’ll get you put with me,” Dani says, tapping his fingers across the cracks in the walls as they continue on. “It’s busy work, but it passes the time,” he says, cocking his head towards the room they just passed.

Inside, Neymar can see several men folding sheets and towels and clothing. Nobody looks up at him as he goes by, all of them seemingly focused on their work.

Most people get out of Dani’s way as they go down the corridor, either turning around and heading in a different direction, or hugging the walls and trying to look small and invisible. And as soon as Dani and the rest of his group pass, they go back to their business. It makes Neymar realize, once again, how powerful his cousin is. And he’s really fucking glad that Dani has always liked him.

He does notice, however, that there are a few inmates who don't seem to be afraid of Dani.

One of them is the man with the shaved head he saw yesterday with Messi.

Neymar must make some noise in his throat because Rafa shushes him.

The man is directly in the middle of the hallway, blocking the path, and he makes no move to get out of the way. Two men are behind him, looking bored. And none of them move when Dani walks up to him. They’re clearly waiting for Dani and Neymar to reach them.

The man with the shaved head smiles as they approach. But it’s a dangerous smile—a terrible smile, full of teeth and malice. “Did you make a friend, Alves?” he says, tilting his chin up like he thinks the very idea is funny. “I’m not sure he’ll be here long enough for you two to... chat.”

It sounds like a threat.

“That’s Masche,” Rafa whispers in Neymar’s ear, speaking barely loud enough for Neymar to hear. “He’s tight with Messi… If you learn one thing today, make it this—don’t ever fuck with him.” His fingers squeeze Neymar’s hand in warning. “Nobody knows what the hell he did to get in here, but it wasn’t pretty.”

Neymar remembers the flash of the knife.

He swallows, nodding the tiniest bit to signal he understands.

Dani only grins. “This, here, ain’t no friend,” he says, laughing. “This is my little cousin.” He takes a step closer to Masche, pointing his finger at the other man. “My favorite, little cousin,” he says, wagging his finger. “You get me?” He murmurs ‘favorite, favorite, favorite,’ over and over with each movement of his finger.

Masche’s smile doesn’t change. The two men with him stop looking so bored and straighten up as Dani takes another step into Masche’s space.

But they don’t interfere.

Nobody does.

And Neymar can barely breathe as he realizes how quiet it’s gotten around them. It reminds him of last night when the guards were surrounding him and waiting for his answer. The bustle of the hallway, the shuffling of footsteps, the buzz of conversation... Everything has stopped.

Dani doesn’t say anything more, though his hands have settled on his hips and he’s bouncing on his toes, looking eager for a fight. The lights flicker above him ominously, as if sensing what’s happening.

The rest of Dani’s entourage waits behind him, having sidled into a small semicircle in front of Neymar and Rafa. And Marcelo sighs, starting to roll his sleeves up.

Masche stares at Dani, digesting this information, clearly deciding what to do with it. He finally shrugs. “I don’t care if he’s your new bitch,” Masche says, looking around Dani and through the other Brazilians to Neymar. “Probably all he’s good for, anyway… Just make sure he keeps that pretty, little mouth closed unless he’s sucking your dick.”

Neymar’s face burns, not knowing what to do or say. He feels Rafa squeeze his fingers again, so he keeps quiet.

Masche studies Neymar intently for a moment, seeming satisfied, watching the embarrassed flush creep into his cheeks. Then flicks his eyes back to Dani. “Or else we’ll have a problem.” The two men behind him shift, one of them cracking his knuckles threateningly.

Neymar doesn’t move, afraid Dani’s going to go off.

But Dani just throws his head back. He laughs and laughs and laughs, the sound bordering on hysterical. The rest of the Brazilians laugh, too. Even Rafa breaks out into giggles, though Neymar has no fucking idea what’s so funny.

Masche rolls his eyes and waves a hand like he expected something similar, turning his back on Dani and walking away. The two men with him follow him, wearing similar looks of disgust.

When they’re out of sight, Dani sobers. “I love that guy,” he says solemnly. He turns to look at Neymar. “Isn’t he a hoot?”

Neymar's too stunned to answer.

Dani bounces on his toes some more, chuckling to himself, and then comes over and ruffles Neymar’s hair. “A fucking psychopath, but a total hoot.” He starts humming again and then also smooths some hair off of Rafa’s forehead. “There you are, dear,” he says, tucking it into the bandana Rafa is wearing, nodding approvingly when Rafa merely bows his head.

Then Dani turns back and claps his hands. “Onward, children,” he says giggling some more.

Neymar’s still confused, but he follows meekly as they continue out into a courtyard.

The large, fenced-in outdoor space isn’t much, but there are plenty of people already occupying it. A few are playing over in the corner, tossing a basketball towards a misshapen metal hoop without a net, while a bunch watches them. Some others are playing cards on a picnic table on the opposite side, while a larger group surrounds them arguing loudly. Every few feet there are clumps of inmates talking and smoking, killing time.

Four guards are looking down on the courtyard, one posted on each wall. Each man has a gun, unlike the guards Neymar’s seen up until now who were armed only with nightsticks.

Neymar peers up at the four men and doesn’t see Guardiola. He doesn’t recognize any of them actually, but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t in the group that beat him the night before. The faces of those uniformed men had blurred together almost immediately, until the only one he remembered was Guardiola’s.

Dani heads over to another picnic table, this one not as crowded. The few people sitting there scatter when Dani waves a hand. One man stays, though he stands as they approach.

“Sit, Douglas,” Dani says to him, and the man sits immediately. Rafa sets Neymar down on the bench and sits next to him, while Dani nods approvingly. “Marcelo, Casemiro, and Lucas, come with me.” He gives Rafa a look and tilts his head, rubbing his hands together. “Ney, I’m gonna go… take care of some things. Rafa, Douglas, and Adriano are going to stay with you.”

Neymar nods, though really, he had no plans of going anywhere.

Dani grips Neymar’s chin, turning his face towards him. “Don’t leave this spot.” He lets go and slaps Neymar upside the head. “I’m not playing around. Don’t go anywhere with anyone except Rafa. The guards have it out for you. Just because you don’t see Guardiola anywhere doesn’t mean his spies aren’t around, you hear me?” He then hugs Neymar to his chest. “Ah, it’s so good to see you. My favorite, little cousin,” he repeats happily.

Neymar barely has time to react before Dani has released him and stormed off across the courtyard.

“I’m—he,” Neymar stammers, holding a hand to his head. “Ow.” He rubs the spot Dani hit and winces. The blow did nothing to help his headache.

Rafa laughs softly, his gentle amusement contagious, and Neymar immediately decides to like him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Rafa says, watching Dani scatter another crowd of people. After a minute of awkward silence, he reaches out a hand. “I’m Rafa, by the way. Or Rafinha, if that's easier to remember.” He points to the other two men across the table. “This is Douglas, and that’s Adriano.” The former has a bit of facial hair and a strange little bun, while the latter has short curls cropped close to his head.

Rafa wipes his forehead, pushing his bandana back a little. “I’m sure things are… a bit confusing,” he continues, “so if you have any questions, I can certainly try to answer them.”

Neymar takes a deep breath. “Thanks,” he says, trying to gather his thoughts. “I appreciate it.”

He has a ton of questions, mostly about Dani and the other Brazilians, but he reins them in, not wanting to offend the few people that seem to be watching out for him. He looks across the courtyard instead, eyes drawn to the different groups of people. His gaze settles on a few men who are smoking, clouds of smoke billowing around them. One of the inmates is staring right back at Neymar, and Neymar looks away self-consciously.

“Who is that?” Neymar asks, looking down at the picnic table and drawing random shapes with his finger. He points a little towards the smoking man.

Rafa hums, and Neymar wonders if it's a habit he picked up from Dani.

“Cristiano Ronaldo,” Rafa says respectfully. “He’s Portuguese. Not someone to mess with.” He laughs again. “I expect I’ll be saying that quite a lot, but in this case, it’s especially true.”

Neymar looks over at Ronaldo again, a little intimidated to find those eyes still focused on him.

“Spends most of his free time in the gym, so it's rare to actually see him out here. He was an up and coming football player,” Rafa says. “Quite good, too, from what I understand. But his agent was making a fool out of him, stealing his money while pretending to invest it… Ronaldo killed him when he found out. Ran over him with one of the agent’s fancy cars. Said it was an accident.”

Neymar thinks that over. “Was it?”

Douglas laughs. “Do you think it was an accident? It’s never an accident.” He shakes his head like he’s just heard a joke. "How many people have you accidentally run over?"

Adriano laughs too, scuffing his shoes on the pavement.

“His friend, there,” Douglas continues, tilting his head to a man beside Ronaldo. “That’s Pepe. Anger issues. He beat a few guys to death one night at a pub. Disagreement over a football match. Was that an accident?”

“And him,” Adriano says, gesturing to the man at Pepe’s side with a teardrop tattoo under his eye. “Ricardo Quaresma. They call him the Gypsy behind his back. But if you’re smart, you won’t.” He looks away quickly when the man starts to look in their direction.

“Why does he have that tattoo?” Neymar asks, watching as the man drops his cigarette to the ground and puts it out with the toe of his shoe.

Rafa shakes his head. “Don’t ask things like that,” he says, putting a hand on top of Neymar’s. “You won’t like the answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. In the next one, Neymar's going to learn about the Spaniards!


	4. Appearances can be Deceiving

Neymar doesn’t know what to say to that.

At all.

He searches for a way to change the subject, quickly glancing around the courtyard for a distraction. His gaze catches Ronaldo’s again and he shivers, moving on to look over at the group playing basketball.

“How about them?” Neymar asks, jerking his chin in their direction. Two really tall guys are scuffling for a faded basketball, while a short one runs around in circles waving his hands in the air. They’re the loudest people by far, screaming and shouting, cursing and throwing elbows.

It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through for a game that doesn’t really matter.

“Spaniards. That’s Ramos,” Rafa says, “with the tattoos,” as the one well-built man wins the battle for the ball. “He’s freakishly strong. Used to work for a private security firm, but he got a little too carried away with using excessive force.” They watch as he holds the ball over his short friend’s head with glee, and then drops it by accident, causing the three to dive onto the ground. All of them are dripping with sweat and seem uncaring about the dirt that now sticks to their skin.

“Clumsy, though,” Rafa adds. “The one next to him is Piqué. They worked together on the outside, though Piqué was arrested for murdering some pop star. It was a big thing in the papers for awhile.”

Neymar takes a deep breath, remembering the story now. It had made headlines all around the world. Piqué had pled insanity, but he’d strangled the woman with his bare hands. Some kind of twisted admiration and obsession that had started with stalking and ended with murder.

He looks at the smiling men playing basketball and doesn’t understand how they can all have done such terrible things. Of course, if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t be here. “And the little one with them? Did he kill somebody, too?”

He looks like a chipmunk, but Neymar’s afraid to say it.

Adriano laughs, drumming his fingers on the table. “Hell, no,” he says. “That’s Jordi Alba. He’s just a car thief.” Beside him, Douglas laughs and shakes his head. “Almost got away with it, too,” Adriano says, leaning towards Neymar. “But it was a Ferrari, and he just couldn’t stop driving it long enough to sell it.”

The basketball eventually bounces away and rolls towards two men leaning by the court. “Xavi and Iker,” Rafa says, pointing first to one with dark eyebrows and then to one with a permanent frown. “Partners. In any way you can imagine,” he says bluntly. “They killed Iker’s boss because he was a dick about it. Used some kind of incredibly poisonous mushroom.”

“Apparently, it took weeks for him to die,” Douglas chimes in. “They ground it up real fine until it was this little powder. And then they added it to his food, little by little. Every meal, they made sure it had some of the mushroom in it. And they watched him eat it, with smiles on their faces, pretending nothing was happening. They did it so slowly that the pain crept up on him and he didn’t even realize it until it was unbearable. By then it was too late.” He grabs his throat and makes a choking noise before slumping over onto the table.

Adriano slaps the back of his head.

Neymar mentally makes a note not to eat any mushrooms ever again.

Ever.

“And him?” Neymar asks, following a thin, pale man who walks up to them, apparently having lost interest in the card game he’d been watching. He's balding, and the sun keeps reflecting off of the top of his head. "Kinda looks like a serial killer.”

Rafa shakes his head. “Andrés Iniesta. Poor guy. Amateur magician who owned a pretty successful winery. But one day his competitor ended up dead, and the police decided he was responsible.” He looks sadly at Neymar. “Most of us fully deserve to be here,” Rafa says gently. “But Iniesta? He’s innocent.”

Neymar watches Iniesta, taking in the way Xavi’s arm goes around his back and how Iker’s frown disappears for a few seconds as he speaks. It makes him wonder if everyone is so accepting of those who are innocent.

“What about you?” Neymar finally asks, looking at Adriano and Douglas.

“Eh, rotten luck,” Adriano says. “Just couldn’t hold down a job, really, either of us. So we kept moving around from place to place. Eventually, we had to start stealing shit because nobody would give us steady work.” Douglas nods, rolling his eyes. “Nothing that nefarious, really. But the judge threw the book at us, said we kept trying to take handouts, didn't deserve anything we got because we didn't earn it... Whatever,” Adriano ends, shrugging.

“Same with you, Rafa?” Neymar asks when it’s quiet again.

Rafa hesitates, licking his lips. He looks at Neymar for a long moment as if he's trying to decide what to say. “No,” he eventually settles on, ducking his head as if he is ashamed. “I—I killed someone.” He screws his face up at Neymar’s surprised look. “I told you that most of us deserve to be here. I deserve it, too.”

Neymar knows his mouth is open in shock and forces himself to close it. “What did you do?” Rafa has been so nice to him... He can't be a murderer...

Rafa looks at him, apparently still having some internal debate. But then he nods like he's come to a decision. “Someone attacked my brother. Hurt him real bad,” he says, tone suddenly turning venomous. “He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to be in such pain like that… And one day I snapped. I hunted down the guy who did it. And I made him pay.” He looks over at Neymar, eyes still fiery. “I’m not sorry. I’d do it again.”

Neymar bites his lip, not sure what to say.

After a minute, Rafa takes a deep breath and calms himself. The fury drains from his eyes and his shoulders sag. “It was for my brother,” he says, seemingly back to normal. “He's so sweet, so good... He's genuinely a good person who would never hurt a fly. And he didn't deserve it at all... Not my brother, my family.... You—you understand that, right?” He looks desperate for Neymar to understand.

Suddenly there are hands resting heavily on Neymar’s shoulders.

Neymar almost jumps out of his skin.

“Of course he understands that, princesa,” Dani says, squeezing. “We all understand that.” He apparently had circled around the courtyard and come up behind them. Across from Neymar, Adriano and Douglas are nodding fervently. “We always need to take care of our family. Don’t we?”

Neymar’s words are stuck in his throat, heart racing like he’s going to die, but he nods obediently, feeling Dani leaning onto him. "Always," he manages to choke out.

“Good boy,” Dani says in response, letting go.

Neymar turns his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dani trail his fingers across Rafa’s back, before walking to stand at the end of the table. The others who went with him originally are back with him, and they all sit except for Marcelo. “Now,” Dani says, clapping his hands and smiling again. “I talked to Zidane, and we’re all set.” He takes his sunglasses off and sticks them on top of his head.

Rafa glances at Neymar, still looking a little off balance from their conversation. “For the laundry,” Rafa explains when Neymar stares at Dani blankly.

“Yes, yes, for the laundry,” Dani says, throwing his arms up. “Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” He mutters something under his breath about children. “So now that we’ve gotten that out of the way… Let’s talk about what we’re going to do about Messi.”

Someone in the group inhales sharply, and Neymar feels a spike of fear before he realizes that it wasn’t him.

Marcelo comes closer and rests his hip against the table. “You wanna take him out?” he asks, looking concerned. “I didn’t think that’s what we wanted…” He raises a hand to his head and begins tugging on his hair. “I mean, I guess we could. It’ll be tough, though—“ he starts before Dani cuts him off.

Dani shrieks with laughter, ignoring the eyes that look in their direction. “No, not that!” He slaps Marcelo on the arm like he’s said something truly ridiculous. “I mean, what should we trade Neymar’s favor for?” He looks around the table, eyes wide and excited. “What is a man’s silence really worth?” he wonders out loud, skimming over their faces and coming to rest on Neymar’s.

Nobody really has an answer to that, but it doesn't matter because a bell sounds and the guards send them all inside after that. Neymar finds himself holding onto Rafa again, their earlier discussion about Rafa's crimes put aside.

Dani breezes through the crowd, nobody daring to touch him, especially with Marcelo right next to him. Rafa and Ney follow, with the others behind them, protecting them from anyone who is thinking about trying anything. Or, at least that’s what Neymar assumes because he can’t think of any other reason why Casemiro and Lucas would be so leisurely walking behind him and Rafa—and not up with Dani. Adriano and Douglas bring up the rear of their little group, chit chatting about nothing in particular.

Neymar hasn’t been here long, but he can already tell that those two seem to be low on the totem pole. Rafa is higher than all of them, except maybe Marcelo, followed by Casemiro and Lucas after that. Even though he's family, Neymar's not sure where he's going to fit into that order.

He lets himself be guided into the cafeteria since apparently, it's lunchtime. He thinks the courtyard might actually be a cleaner place to eat, but nobody bats an eye at the stained tables and filthy floor. Dani sits down at the center table and grins, like a king on his throne, patting the empty seat at his side. "Here, my little one."

If Dani's the king, Neymar wonders if that seat would make him the queen.

But Neymar goes where he's told and lets Rafa sets him down in the chair. "I'll get you a tray," Rafa says kindly, afterward, and Neymar can only look up in thanks.

The truth is, he's fading rapidly. His head is still throbbing, and there's a stitch in his side that just won't go away.

Maybe Dani knows that because he tosses his sunglasses on the table. He puts an arm around Neymar's shoulders and pulls him into a half hug. "Come now," he says, slightly subdued. "It's not so bad in here, you know." He hums a little. "It's different, I'm sure. Honestly, I can't remember what it's like on the outside... But you'll get used to it in here. You'll adapt. Adapt and survive, adapt and thrive," he chants, as if it's something he's said often.

Neymar lets his eyes flutter closed. "Do you count the days, Dani?" he asks, thinking about his sentence. "How do you do it?"

Dani's quiet for a moment, so quiet that Neymar almost sits up. But then Dani's fingers drum against his shoulder. "No," Dani breathes, in a rare moment of humanity. "I don't count the days because I know they'll never let me out."

Then Dani shrugs, and seems to be back to himself. "That's okay, I don't mind."

Neymar opens his eyes, staring blankly out at the rapidly filling cafeteria. "How can you not mind?" The faces blur together, the names and stories he heard earlier all mixing with each other until he couldn't pick out a person to save his life. What he can see, though, are the guards stationed over against the wall. "You're trapped here."

Dani clucks his tongue. "I have whatever I want here. And I can get whatever else I decide I want," he says, loosening his grip. His other hand waves at the cafeteria. "And because you're my favorite, little cousin, I'll get you whatever you want, too. A girl? A boy? Drugs?" He wiggles his fingers. "Ta-da, wish it and it'll appear."

Neymar blinks slowly. "It's that easy?"

"Oh yes," Dani says, slapping his hand on the top of the table. "Go ahead, wish that Rafa was back with your food," he orders.

Neymar sighs. "I wish Rafa was back with my food," he says obediently, still staring blankly across the room.

"Ta-da!" Dani shouts, hitting the table again. This time, it's loud enough that it jerks Neymar back into the present, and he sits up wearily in time to see Rafa setting two plastic trays down in front of him and Dani. "Only the best for you, Ney," Dani says, grinning.

"And where is your food, princesa?" Dani asks Rafa, sticking his lip out theatrically in a pout. He slaps the seat on his other side. "I want the best for you, too," he croons, crooking his finger at Rafa when the other is slow to move.

Rafa sits down, leaning into Dani. "Adriano has it," he says softly. "It'll just be a minute." He smiles across at Neymar. "Eat while it's hot or else it'll taste worse," he advises, smiling when Dani drops a kiss on the top of his head and murmurs something into his hair.

Neymar blinks as realization dawns, suddenly understanding that Dani already has a queen.

Dani strokes his fingertips up Rafa's jawline. "Problem?" he asks out of the blue, turning to face Neymar. He's still grinning, but his tone is dangerous, anger lacing the words and his eyes darkening with rage.

"No," Neymar says at once, meaning it. "I--I--," he stutters when Dani seems like he's waiting for more. "I just, didn't understand something before. Now I do," he explains, thinking back to the way they'd all laughed at Masche's comments in the corridor about Neymar sucking Dani's dick.

The fury seems to drain out of Dani instantly. "Not too smart, are ya?" he says again, seeming amused. He picks up his fork and begins to shovel food into his mouth, chewing noisily. "Better start paying attention," he advises around a mouthful. "Or you really won't last in here."

It's not a threat, but it sends a chill up his spine.

Neymar nods somberly, picking up his own fork and taking a bite of something that looks like mashed potatoes when he squints. It's not, as it turns out, but since he can't tell what it is, he just keeps eating. He's soon joined by the rest of Dani's crew. Marcelo sits directly across from Dani, obviously watching the rest of the room for any signs of trouble, while the others fill in the empty seats at the table.

Nobody really talks.

It's probably one of the most awkward meals Neymar's ever sat through. Everyone just eats and chews, or coughs, making the clinking silverware sound melodious.

Dani hums, though. Taps his feet in the floor, taps his fingers on the table.

Neymar's afraid to talk, especially since he sees Masche is sitting at a table in the corner.

The man with the shaved head isn't eating. He's just sitting, arms crossed, and staring at Neymar. His companions are occasionally looking over, too. On one side of the table, a thin man with sharp cheekbones is sitting silently next to a barrel-chested man with a faux Mohawk. And on the other side of the table, there're the two men who'd been behind Masche in the hallway. One, with a diamond tattoo beneath his ear, is glaring. The other, a bearded man, is smiling.

"You want to know about them?" Marcelo eventually asks, seemingly knowing without looking where Neymar's attention is. "You probably should," he adds matter of factly, when Neymar hesitates. "Know thy enemy."

Lucas, sitting next to Marcelo, laughs. "It's not gonna help him any," he says darkly. He scrapes his fork against his plate and then stuffs the last bit of food into his mouth. "Either they want him dead or they don't."

Casemiro shrugs. "Thing is," he says quietly. "They don't know what they want yet. They don't know what they want until Messi tells them what they want."

Dani grins and points a finger at him. "A thousand points to Ravenclaw," he says, waving his finger like a wand.

"What?! Dani, no! I'm a Slytherin, I told you," Casemiro says, frowning. He pushes his tray away and crosses his arms when Dani continues to smile and wave his finger. "This is so unfair," he mutters, thunking his head on the table.

"So, um," Neymar says, clearing his throat and trying to get back on topic. Because he really, really, does not want to get involved in that discussion. "Rafa told me about Masche," he says, saying the name quickly, just in case the man is trying to read his lips. "But what about the others?"

Dani hums. "Di María," he says, gesturing toward the man with the sharp cheekbones. "Bit of a floater. Friendly with the Spaniards, but he's been known to do business with the English and the French." Dani rests his chin on his hand. "Has a real knack for disappearing right before the trouble starts," he says admiringly. "Though, he's here because he killed a bunch of men who broke in and tried to attack his family. Didn't disappear that time."

"The smiley one is Lavezzi," Lucas says, tilting his chin. "Funny guy. Impersonated a police officer and got away with a shit ton of stuff. Some woman tried to blackmail him with dirty pictures, but she ended up being the sorry one. He was tight with Higuaín at one point. Don't know what that means for him."

Dani giggles. "Means he's fucked is what it means." He kicks his feet under the table. "Oh and if he ever offers to show you his gun, just know he means his dick."

Neymar blinks, trying to take that all in.

“Rojo is the pretty boy with the diamond," Marcelo says. "He had an affair and then killed the woman to cover it up. Stupid... Gets into a lot of fights--does Masche's dirty work a lot of the time—and the rest of the time he’s just looking for trouble. Has some nice ink, though," he adds as an afterthought, looking down at his own arms. "A lot of the Argentines do." He sets his fork and spoon down on his tray, straightening them neatly.

"Not Kun Agüero," Lucas says, smiling.

Neymar looks at the last man at the table. "I don't even see any of his," he says, watching as the mohawked man peers over at him with a dopey looking expression. "Oh, there on his arm?" he asks, unable to make out the black script written across the forearm.

"Some Lord of the Rings shit," Dani says dismissively as if he hadn’t just referenced Harry Potter a minute ago.

Dani shakes his head and grins again. ”He's an idiot, that's not the point. The point is that he's a murderous idiot. He killed his father in law because he called him a wimp. Then he killed his ex-wife because she was sleeping with some rapper. Then he killed the rapper." Dani raises his eyebrows. "And he sure as fuck has killed people in here. You so much as look at Messi wrong--you *breathe on Messi* wrong--and Agüero will kill you. You get me?"

Neymar nods. "He--he doesn't look like much," he says meekly.

Marcelo smiles at him. "Looks harmless, right? Like a puppy. Follows Messi like one, anyway.” He tilts his head. “Some people called him Messi’s dog once… They didn’t last very long. Doesn’t matter what he looks like. Appearances can be deceiving, kid. Especially in here." He folds his hands as if they were having a calm discussion and not discussing murderers. "No doubt about it--every one of that group is dangerous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On vacation with sporadic internet... You don't realize how much you depend on it until you don't have it! Tell me what you think. Hope you're liking the backgrounds for all of the inmates--I'm trying to connect some real life things, obviously.


	5. You Were Touching My Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t like it when people touch my things, you know that," Dani says.

Adriano stacks up the trays and cutlery after that.

Neymar makes a move to help him, but Dani grabs his hand.

“No,” Dani says, smacking it once on top like Neymar’s a little boy reaching for something he’s not allowed to have. It doesn’t hurt, but Neymar wasn’t expecting it at all. Dani doesn’t say anything else, and Neymar’s left bewildered. He looks around, trying to understand because he doesn’t get it.

Rafa makes a little amused sound on Dani’s other side, though everyone else is quiet.

Neymar opens his mouth to ask why, but Adriano catches his eye and shakes his head. So instead, he bites his tongue and sits while their table is cleared. Adriano stacks everything together before walking them over to the counter to return them. Around them, people are doing the same, conversation picking up as they start exiting the room and going to their next destination.

Neymar doesn’t know what his next destination is, so he just waits. Of course, it’s not like he would have gotten up and started walking without Dani telling him, anyways.

And, actually, he wonders if this means he’s higher than Adriano now.

Dani is staring out across the cafeteria, turning his eyes this way and that, seemingly looking for something. Or maybe he's just being himself, surveying his kingdom. He's still twitchy, fingers moving on the table in what Neymar has realized is a normal pattern for him.

Marcelo is doing the same thing sans the finger drumming, facing the other side of the room, turning his head from side to side. People are looking back at them, some glancing quickly as if sneaking a peek—both at Dani and Marcelo.

And slowly, probably too slowly, Neymar realizes they're also looking at him, too.

It should freak him out, and it does slightly, but what is even more unnerving is the fact that not everybody is shy about looking. Especially when some of the inmates meet Dani’s gaze firmly. Like Masche. And Ronaldo. And Iker.

They aren’t challenging Dani—they’re just not afraid of him... which is nerve wracking.

There are others, too. People who aren't afraid. Not many—but others. Enough that Neymar understands that he still hasn't quite figured out the hierarchy here. There are obvious leaders, or some sort of leaders, that are surrounded by groups, but there are also those who seem to be on the fringes of the room. Some of them are the daring ones.

A *very* tall man with a topknot and a sneer.

A shorter man with a toothy smile, sitting by himself.

A baby-faced kid who is sitting on the edge of a table and snapping his gum.

People that Neymar doesn’t know. People that Neymar doesn’t want to know.

Dani doesn’t seem to care, probably used to them all. Eventually, he either finds what he’s looking for, or he gives up, putting on his sunglasses. “Time for work, children,” he says, standing up and snapping his fingers. He hums something under his breath, doing a little twirl to a beat that only he can hear, and then he walks off without another word.

Lucas and Casemiro fall in behind him.

The others start to do the same, so Neymar scrambles up, biting back a moan when he bangs his side into the table. Rafa sighs but hoists him up again. Neymar almost-*almost*—says something about how it isn’t his fault that the guards beat the shit out of him and did everyone expect him to heal miraculously overnight, but he takes a deep breath and keeps it all inside. He expects he's going to have to do that a lot around here.

They’ve only gone a few feet when Rafa stumbles and twists around angrily.

Neymar doesn’t know why—

Marcelo is in front of him so fast that Neymar hasn’t even blinked yet. “We got a problem, Francisco?” he says, staring down a short, bearded man that Neymar hadn’t noticed.

Neymar’s suddenly aware that they’re surrounded by a crowd. Rafa’s trembling by his side, either angry or afraid, maybe both… but there are others watching, waiting, like sharks scenting blood in the water.

Francisco is twitchy, scratching his face vigorously, leaning in towards Marcelo and then leaning back. “Noooo,” he says, long and drawn out, smiling. He isn’t afraid of Marcelo and only looks at the crowd curiously. “Just saying hi,” he says, peering over at Rafa. “Wanted to meet the new guy, and Rafinha was in the way.”

Rafa makes a disgusted sound next to him, fingers digging into Neymar’s shoulder, and Neymar realizes this guy must have touched him. Shoved him? Pinched him?

Marcelo's eyes narrow, looking deadlier than Neymar thought possible. Not that he was a ball of sunshine before, but he's certainly not someone Neymar would ever choose to antagonize. "Oh, was he? Well, now *I'm* in your way," Marcelo replies pleasantly, crossing his arms.

Francisco just smiles, and Neymar's brain is shrieking, "mistake, mistake, mistake."

And then Dani’s there.

The cafeteria is crowded, and Dani had been near the door already, but people must have moved out of his path immediately. Lucas and Casemiro are back in the mix too, casually walking behind Rafa and Neymar.

“You touching my things, Isco?” Dani asks, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head. “Is that what I just heard? You were touching my things?” He’s grinning wildly again, eyes wide, like this is the craziest thing he'd ever heard. "Really?!" He taps Marcelo on the arm to move him out of the way.

Marcelo moves to the side calmly, having no problem letting Dani handle things. He keeps his arms crossed and his gaze on Francisco, though, clearly not amused by the way the other man wasn't backing down. People standing there take a few steps back to give him room, not wanting to accidentally interfere.

“I don’t like it when people touch my things, you know that," Dani says.

It's only then that Francisco's smile disappears a little and he starts looking less sure of himself. He opens his mouth to answer and then closes it, scratching his beard again. "Your things," he repeats as if that hadn't occurred to him.

Dani starts mumbling, pulling his glasses down to chew on them, turning around to peer closely at both Neymar and Rafa. “Touching my things. *My* things. Mine, mine, mine,” he repeats around the glasses, the words hard to hear.

Neymar’s still confused so he just stares back at Dani. Francisco, or Isco, or whatever, hadn’t touched him, so it’s not like he has anything to complain about.

Also, does Rafa really *belong* to Dani?

For that matter, does *Neymar* belong to Dani?

Rafa stays quiet, lips pressed together. But maybe his face says enough because Dani raises his eyebrows and nods. Something kind flickers through his eyes, maybe saying something silently to Rafa that he can't say out loud. Neymar's not even sure he's seeing it because it's gone in an instant, Dani's gaze hardening again.

Then Dani spins back around to look at the bearded man, pulling his glasses out so he can speak clearly. “Lucas,” Dani calls over his shoulder, “Isco, here, is going to be late for work.”

There’s a few guffaws from the crowd, some murmuring as the excitement grows, pushing and shoving as they all try to get a good view of what's about to happen. Neymar turns to see Lucas cutting through the group of people to exit the room. The Brazilian says something to the guards by the door who listen quietly to whatever he’s explaining. They look over once towards where Dani is, and they smile and nod.

And then the guards, well, they take their guns and follow Lucas, leaving the inmates completely alone.

Neymar looks back in time to see the blood drain from Isco’s face, like the other man finally understands the gravity of the situation.

“I didn't, I wasn’t,” Isco says, breathing faster, panicking. He takes a step back, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “I wasn’t going to do anything, Alves. I wouldn’t—I know he’s yours, of course, Rafinha's yours, everyone knows that, and the new one, too--they’re both yours, right?” he says, putting his hands up to protest his innocence. His fingers continue to twitch. “No, no, no, I would never take your things—never touch your things.”

Nobody looks convinced, and Dani’s expression doesn’t change.

Isco takes another step back, fearfully, and this time, someone shoves him forward again with a laugh. “It was an accident,” he gasps, changing his story. “I didn’t mean to really touch him. I--I--tripped, on the floor, right there, that crack. You see it, don't you? Right there,” he stammers, pointing to the ground at nothing.

Dani laughs and bounces on his toes, looking like he's going to fall down in hysterics. He looks back at Rafa and Neymar and grins. Seconds later, he loses his mirth, turning back and taking a step closer to Isco. “Oh, was that it?" He looks down at the floor, humoring the other man. "Or, maybe you're a fucking liar. Maybe you need a little help remembering not to touch what doesn't belong to you,” he offers, handing his glasses to Marcelo.

“No, no, please, Alves,” Isco says, getting down on his knees as Dani looms over him. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I swear.” He holds his hands up together like he’s praying, fingers resting against his lips. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.” He looks like he’s about to cry, trembling so much Neymar thinks he’s going to pass out.

And Neymar wonders if he’s about to witness his second murder in two days.

But then the baby-faced boy he saw earlier pushes through the crowd, nobody stopping him as he weaves his way through the inmates, slipping through until he’s in the circle of space around Dani and Isco.

Neymar wonders why, but he's distracted by the thought that the boy looks like he's wearing eyeliner.

“Don’t kill him, Dani,” the kid says, snapping his gum some more. He fondly looks down at Isco begging on the floor. “I rather like him.” He doesn’t say please or promise Dani anything. It sounds like he’s talking about a favorite piece of clothing rather than a person.

Ronaldo is there next to him, too, his arm around the kid's shoulders, eyeing Dani warily as if warning him to grant this request.

Neymar’s completely lost on how all of them are connected.

Dani’s grin grows, maybe because he likes having an audience. "Alright then, James,” he says as if he’s feeling generous. “I won’t kill him.” His eyes find Isco’s, seeming gleeful as the other man shivers. “I’ll just make sure he remembers not to touch what’s mine.”

The boy, James, nods as if that was the best he could hope for. “Fair enough,” he says, blowing a small bubble and then sucking it into his mouth. He smiles as he leans into Ronaldo's side.

Ronaldo half smiles in return, but when he notices Neymar watching him, his expression smooths out until he just looks bored.

And then Dani surges forward and grabs Isco’s hand.

“Don’t. Ever. Touch. My. Things,” Dani says darkly, venomously, so full of anger that Neymar is genuinely afraid of his cousin. With each word, Dani snaps one of Isco’s fingers.

Neymar has to force himself not to flinch at each loud crack, the sound of bones breaking one that he’ll never forget.

But Dani’s not finished, not just satisfied with that. No, as an added bonus, he squeezes Isco’s broken fingers together afterward, rolling them together in his hand like it’s nothing.

Isco screams in pain, howling like he’s dying. He tries to melt into the floor, a few tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.

Dani just laughs, dropping Isco’s hand. “Bad!” he says, shaking a finger at him. “Bad, bad, bad!” Then he extends an arm in Marcelo’s direction, taking his sunglasses back and putting them on again. “So bad,” he mumbles, losing his smile, “touching my things.”

Dani shakes his finger at Isco, who’s cowering on the floor and moaning. “Bad, bad, bad,” he mumbles again, almost absentmindedly.

Neymar holds his breath, afraid Dani’s going to do more.

But all Dani does is turn around to look at him and Rafa, ignoring the crowd. “Let’s go, children,” he says, smile reappearing. “Onward.”

Their next destination is the laundry room, as it turns out, and Neymar makes a mental note of that as he tries to forget that he just saw Dani break someone’s hand.

Breakfast, followed by free time in the yard, followed by lunch, followed by work. This is the start of his new life, so he should probably try to get used to things and learn quickly. Of course, it's not like anyone tells him whether or not tomorrow is going to be the same schedule.

And he has to assume there was breakfast, even though he didn't get any.

So rude that he didn’t get a wake-up call… Unless he counts Dani smacking him in the face.

After an hour of hoisting heavy, wet linens out of the washers and transferring them to the dryers, Neymar wishes he'd eaten more at lunch. Even if it was gloppy not-mashed potatoes. Because the truth is, this is extremely hard work. His hands are permanently red, palms burnt from the steam, as he pulls out load after load of wet cloth. His back is aching from bending down, and his arms are screaming at him as he hauls the bundles around.

His ribs are… God, he tries not to think about his ribs, because they fucking hurt so much. He’s decided nothing’s broken. But, they’re definitely bruised. And Neymar hasn’t pulled up his shirt to look, but he’s sure his entire side is black and blue.

Nobody really talks, and Neymar can understand why. First of all, the noise is awful—the washers whirring and the dryers tumbling. Plus everything hums—it’s a little alarming actually, and Neymar wonders if everything is up to code. Plus, he's out of breath from constantly moving back and forth, carrying too much, and even though everyone else is too--they seem to be in much better shape than he is.

And it's hot.

So *hot* in the laundry room.

The heat from the dryers makes it almost unbearable, and Neymar knows his face is flushed. Not only that, he's sweating like a pig. His hair is wet, sweat dripping from his temples, and his shirt is soaked. Frankly, he's disgusting. And he smells like something that died.

But everyone else is the same, so it's not like Neymar can complain.

Well, Dani's shirtless, something that Neymar is considering more and more as he works. But since nobody else is, Neymar doesn't have the guts to imitate him.

"Hey, Rafa? What exactly would I have been doing?" he pants out, grabbing another load. "If Dani didn't pull some strings to get me with you guys?" He practically lunges his way over to the next open dryer, dropping the sheets in with a sigh. "Something equally as tough, right?" he asks hopefully, shutting the lid and then leaning on top of it wearily.

Rafa smiles at him, looking just as hot as Neymar, though somehow he manages to glisten rather than drip. "There are a couple of things it could have been," he says, slamming the lid of his own dryer.

They take a minute to catch their breath, walking slowly back to the long line of washers.

Other inmates have been constantly reloading them with sheets, towels, and clothing, so the breaks are few and far in between.

"Could have been in the kitchen--not cooking, you're too new for that. But washing dishes and cleaning and stuff like that." Rafa nods to two that are about to buzz and they head in that direction. "There's the manufacturing--license plates mostly, here…” He laughs at Neymar's look of longing. "Other stuff, too. Nothing is easy, really. It is work. Even if it doesn't sound like it."

Neymar nods, unconvinced, because he doesn’t understand how making a license plate could possibly be as tough as what he’s doing now.

"I mean it," Rafa says, leaning his hip against the washer as the wait. "Except for the library, which you'll never get to do, everything is meant to be mindless and exhausting. Down in the workrooms, they keep track of how much you produce. And if it's not enough, you lose privileges." He shrugs. "This is better because they can't do anything like that."

Neymar squints at him. “Better? Ugh. Well, I could have worked in the library," he says halfheartedly, wiping his brow. “I know how to read and stuff.”

Rafa smiles again. "You could, but you won't. That's for the old-timers who've been here forever and have earned it. Not some newbie who's afraid of work." He sticks his tongue out at Neymar. "Besides, this is good for you. A few weeks of this and you'll have muscles you never thought you'd ever have." His fingers tap on the washer lid. "Dani's smart. Makes us all do it, and that way if we're ever cornered, we'll have a fighting chance."

Neymar ponders that, turning his head to watch Douglas stumble by with his arms full of linen. It's hard not to notice that even *he* has some impressive biceps.

"Plus, every other day we do the folding instead, so it gives us a bit of a break…” Rafa says, and Neymar looks longingly over towards the room across the hall where all the clean things are being taken.

“Oh, hmm," Rafa says, pointing to two washers set over in the corner. They’re slightly off the main aisle, mostly hidden by a few shelves. "These haven't been moved in forever, come on."

Neymar honestly wouldn’t even have seen them if Rafa hadn’t mentioned them, but he drags his feet and follows. When he opens one and pulls out the wet sheets, he lets out a sigh of relief because the fabric is actually cool as opposed to hot. “Oh, this is nice,” he murmurs.

Perks of not taking them out right away, he guesses.

"I heard what happened," someone says loudly behind them, and Neymar jumps a foot in the air. He drops the sheets in surprise, grabbing at his heart. Then he turns around and leans against the washer. Rafa's slow to do the same, fingers clenching in Neymar's shirt, obviously recognizing the voice.

It's a guard. A tall, dark-haired man with a bit of a beard. He’s leaning next to the shelves, and it looks like he’s been there the whole time.

'Enrique' is spelled out on his name tag.

Neymar's stomach twists. Because he doesn't know the voice or the name, but he knows the face. He knows this is one of the group that beat him up last night.

He wants to run, wants to go find Dani.

Fuck, he wishes Dani was with them. But they’re in the corner, away from most of the other people. It’s quieter here.

Not really a good thing.

"I heard someone grabbed you at lunch," the guard says, focusing on Rafa, and Neymar realizes that this isn’t even about last night. The guard ignores Neymar completely and takes a step closer, shiny shoes scuffing on the floor. "Are you alright, Rafinha?" His eyes trail down Rafa's body like he's looking for signs of injury. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Neymar thinks it's sweet at first, wonders if maybe the guard isn't so bad... Granted, the guard did beat the shit out of him, so that’s fucked up.

But then he realizes the way the guy is looking at Rafa is sorta creepy.

"I'm fine, Luis," Rafa says, back against the washer.

"I'm glad," the guard says. "Glad it wasn't worse. There are a lot of animals in here that don’t understand how to behave.” He cocks his head, now looking at Neymar. His gaze is intense, and there's a nasty glint in his eyes as if he's remembering hitting Neymar with his nightstick. But then he loses interest and looks back at Rafa, smile definitely lecherous. "And Rafinha," he says, licking his lips, "I thought I said you could call me Lucho." His eyes focus on Rafa's mouth. "Because we're friends."

Sorta creepy just turned into really creepy, really fast.

Because that’s some serious eye-fucking right there.

Neymar's stomach starts to roil, the guard oozing sleaziness.

"I'm sorry," Rafa says. "I keep forgetting." He doesn't say anything after that, mouth pressed into a polite smile. His hand is still gripping Neymar's shirt, keeping him close. "I'm not the best with names."

"Well, remember," Enrique says, smiling. "Friends," he repeats. "And I take very good care of my friends." He sticks his thumbs into his belt, rocking back on his heels. "If you want, I could get you out of here early... Let you shower in peace, take you back to your cell to rest," he offers, licking his lips again.

Neymar feels like he's going to throw up.

"That's okay," Rafa says, ducking his head. His bandana slips and he raises a hand to readjust it. "I don't mind the work. And I'm keeping Neymar company, showing him what to do and everything." His tone is friendly and his smile is polite, though Neymar is sure he feels anything but.

Enrique's smile dims slightly. "Well, that's nice of you," he says, thinking. He looks over at Neymar again, flicking his eyes down his body. He takes his time, looking at Neymar’s arms and chest, the way his shirt is practically glued to his skin. "You boys stick together," he says, eventually dragging his eyes away. "And you'd better get back to work." He walks off around the corner after that, without looking back.

Now Neymar feels like he needs a shower for a whole different reason.

Rafa turns back and grabs the wet linens out of the washer, heaving them up into his arms and then resting them on top of the washer. He shuts his eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

Neymar watches him, not knowing what to do.

“What—should I—?” Neymar asks, leaning into whisper, in case the guard is still lurking around the shelves. He reaches out to touch Rafa and then pauses, hand hovering in the air. “Do you want me to get Dani?”

“Don’t get Dani,” Rafa whispers back. He opens his eyes and looks at Neymar. “Thank you, but don’t get Dani.” He hesitates. “This is nothing new, Neymar. He just looks at me, talks to me, tries to tell me we’re friends.” He swallows and looks disgusted. “I’ll never go off with him. And I never put myself in a position where I’m entirely alone.”

Neymar opens his mouth to argue, looking at their secluded corner.

Rafa gives him a look. “I know where not to go,” he says, hands tightening on the wet bundle in his arms. “I know which spots aren’t safe. And I wouldn’t have come over here if you weren’t right there beside me.”

Neymar’s not sure how he feels about that.

“The guards aren’t your friends, Neymar,” Rafa says, looking down. “Better you learn that now, rather than later. Don’t ever believe them when they say that. Some are better than others. Some do their job and don’t look for perks… But they still aren’t your friends.” He sighs. “Dani knows about Enrique. But Enrique isn’t like Isco. Dani can’t just break his hand and scare him off. That’s not how this works. Everything is about power in here.”

“But Dani—,” Neymar says, thinking about how much power Dani has.

“Dani can only do so much, even if it seems otherwise,” Rafa says. “And you shouldn’t tell him about this,” he says bluntly.

Neymar can’t control the way his eyes widen in surprise.

“I can’t lie to Dani,” Neymar says, not understanding. He’s a shit liar anyways. He can try, but people take one look at the way his expression smooths out and instantly know he’s hiding something. It’s why Pep had fucking let the guards beat him. “Why…?”

“It’s not lying, Neymar. Jesus…” Rafa closes his eyes. “It just—Dani… He just gets upset, okay? Because he doesn’t like when he’s helpless. He—he gets angry and goes and starts trouble with somebody else, just so he can feel like he’s doing something. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for any of us, okay?”

Neymar bites his lip. “Okay,” he agrees. “I won’t say anything… But, if you need my help or something, or don’t want to be alone somewhere—I’ll come with you,” he says.

He doesn’t like the way Rafa looks defeated.

“We’re friends, right?” Neymar offers. It’s not something he ever thought he’d be saying to a murderer, but Rafa’s been by his side since Neymar woke up—helping him and explaining everything… He’s a good guy, and Neymar wants them to be friends.

Rafa smiles at him. “Yes, Neymar,” he says softly. “We’re friends.”

 


	6. There's No Privacy in Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar doesn’t like the showers.
> 
> At all.

Neymar doesn’t like the showers.

At all.

Like, if he could somehow not take showers ever again, that would be okay. It would be fine. Excellent, even.

Really.

Sponge bath or dry shampoo or something like that? Fuck, even a hose somewhere? Sign him up.

He likes showers in general. Used to like them a lot, actually. He’d take one in the morning right after he woke up, maybe one in the afternoon if he went to the gym, and then one right before bedtime. He likes being clean, likes using fancy soaps that smell like flowers (yes, flowers, okay? he’s not ashamed), likes singing pop songs while he’s washing his hair under water so hot he can barely stand it…

But that’s not stuff he can do here.

That that was what he could do before--when he could do whatever he wanted and had his own shower in his own house. And unfortunately, this is not his house.

And he’s not the only person using the shower.

So, he does not like the showers.

It’s the first time he’s *really* realized that there’s no privacy in prison.

Because, sure, he had to pee earlier, and Rafa had taken him back to his cell so he could. And that had been embarrassing, but still semi-private since there weren’t a million people around. Rafa had even turned around and faced the hallway and promised that nobody was going to look at him. There had been a lot of eye rolling and laughter, but Rafa hadn’t made a big deal about it and in the end, Neymar had peed and felt a lot better.

But this?

This.

Is.

Worse.

There are shelves for towels and clothes and stuff in a little dressing area that has cubbies and looks like a locker room. There aren’t locks on anything, so it seems like you risk your things being stolen any time you put them down, but that’s kinda expected. So, that part isn’t so bad. But then there's the shower room itself.

There are rows of shower heads against the white tiled wall, but no cubicles, not even glass doors separating him from Dani or Rafa or any of the other strange men in the room. The air is steamy, here and there, but that’s really all that prevents Neymar from looking at any of the naked bodies.

And he doesn’t mean to look.

But he can’t help it.

Because it’s filled with naked men.

Neymar tries to keep his eyes up, but they’re drawn to the overwhelming amount of dangly bits on display. Because they're just... there. They are there and they are dangling. And the butts. They’re there too. There are a lot of butts.

There are a lot of tattoos, too, he discovers, as he stares across the room trying to not look at the butts.

Or the bits.

(God, he’s trying, he’s really trying.)

He keeps telling himself that it’s like a public locker room, except… not.

For one thing, people keep looking at him, which is an interesting experience, but not one that he likes. He doesn’t understand why they can’t all try to do what he’s doing, and stare miserably at the wall.

Some of the men wink and wiggle their eyebrows, which is a little alarming, and makes him move closer to Rafa. They purse their lips and blow kisses, trying to scare him. Well, they’re succeeding. Others, like that baby-faced James, aren’t so bad. The kid seems to be sans chewing gum for once, but he keeps moving his eyebrows up and down like he has some kind of nervous tic.

Either that or he’s trying to send a message.

He’s smiling every time Neymar meets his eyes, but it isn’t like he’s leering—more like he’s just trying to amuse Neymar. Ronaldo is by his side, like always, built like a bodybuilder, tanned and sleek, and even more obviously defined now that he’s without his clothes. The two men aren’t touching or speaking, but when Ronaldo sees James’ glances at Neymar, his face turns to stone, losing what little expression it has.

Neymar quickly looks away before he starts anything.

The tall sneering man with the topknot that Neymar had seen in the cafeteria is continuously staring at Neymar, too. When he sees Neymar looking back, he half grins and then turns under the shower and displays his side, as if he’s trying to show off the tattoo of a red dragon curled around his body. Neymar doesn’t have much of a reaction to it, somewhat numb to tattoos now that he’s seen so many. But apparently, that’s not what the man was looking for because his arrogant face sharpens into a sneer again.

After that, Neymar tries not to return *any* of looks for fear of sending the wrong signals. Because frankly, he really does not want to be sending any signals at all.

He wants to shower and get out. And get away from here. Go back to his cell and sleep for a hundred years. Maybe a thousand.

He doesn’t drop the soap.

Actually, he doesn't have soap.

He doesn’t have anything, and so at first, he stands there, wringing his hands nervously, looking at the room full of people.

Rafa shows him where to put his dirty clothes when they go in, but apparently, he’s supposed to have his own towel and shower shoes and soap and shampoo with him already? Of course, he doesn’t, because the guards hadn’t really been concerned with that the night before.

Guardiola hadn't exactly rolled out the welcome mat.

But Rafa holds up a chunk of soap indicating that he'll share, and Adriano scurries off and finds a spare towel from somewhere. “We’ll get you all straightened out,” Dani promises, shoving him towards an open shower head with Rafa. “For now, just relax, eh?”

So Neymar tries, and eventually does a little, standing beneath the lukewarm water. He waits for Rafa to be finished with the soap, and then washes himself up as quickly as possible while he waits for Rafa to pass him some shampoo. He’s very self-conscious, knowing that the others are looking at him, and he has to fight the urge to shield himself—knowing that it will only make things worse.

Instead, he carefully washes his chest, tenderly pressing down on the bruises he now sees are painted across his skin. Blobs of purple and blue, some so dark they look black. There aren't any mirrors in here, but he expects his back is covered with welts, too. Especially when he catches Dani looking slightly concerned.

His cousin screws up his face, eyeing Neymar's back and looking thoughtful before he goes back to worrying about himself.

This is another place where nobody really talks.

It’s so strange.

There’s no joking or laughter—it’s not like when Neymar was younger and he showered in the locker room with his teammates after football practice. No, these men are mostly silent. There’s some minor chatter here and there, a few men throwing insults across the room, and a few whispering to each other in the corners.

Neymar tries to stay quiet too, tries not to draw any more attention to himself.

Except the man showering next to him and Rafa just keeps looking at him.

Neymar *tries* to bite his tongue, but he’s really, really terrible at it and finally whispers, “What?!” out of the corner of his mouth.

The man looks amused, shampoo running down his chest. He’s fucking ripped, sporting like a six-pack or eight-pack or twelve-pack… Neymar can’t really tell and is desperately trying not to look. “Do you like animals? Bunnies? Dogs?” the man asks curiously, wiping some water out of his eyes and leaning in a little.

Neymar wants to ask what the hell that has to do with anything, and whether or not this has to do with a joke about fucking, but when he eyes Rafa, his friend is just shaking his head and looks to be smiling. “Um, yeah,” Neymar answers, dipping his head under the water and hoping to end this conversation. “I used to have a dog, but he lives with my mother now,” he says.

The man’s smile is strange. “Oh, yeah? Did you ever have him fight or anything? You can make good money doing that, you know.”

Neymar finds himself a little insulted. He wants to snap that he loves Poker, would never make Poker fight anybody, that dog fighting is dangerous and disgusting. Instead, he takes a deep breath and keeps his voice level, not knowing if that’ll set this guy off or something. “Um, no,” he says politely. “That’s not—I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“You miss him?” the man presses, rinsing off his body. “Your dog?” He says it like it’s stupid to miss an animal.

Maybe he’s in prison for animal cruelty or something.

Neymar lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, “more than most people, really.” He eyes Rafa again, trying to indicate that he’s gonna need help to escape.

Rafa just keeps smiling and Neymar rolls his eyes.

“Good,” the man finally says, surprisingly. He sticks his hand out in greeting as if they were out in the yard, and not completely naked and soaking wet. “Sánchez,” he offers. “Or, Alexis. Whichever.” He grins, a smile stretching from ear to ear.

Neymar takes his hand gingerly. “Neymar,” he says, shaking and then letting go as quick as he can.

“Oh, I know,” Sánchez says. “Everybody knows.”

Neymar blinks at that, wondering what the hell that means. ‘Everybody knows?’ he asks himself silently.

Sánchez smiles as if he’s going to say something else but then shakes his head. “Good to finally meet you.” He turns off the water. “I don’t think you’ve met my friends,” he says, as water trickles down his body. He gestures down the row of shower heads. “Medel, Isla, Vidal, Bravo, and Jara,” he says, rattling off the names like Neymar’s going to remember them.

None of them look up anyway.

Neymar makes a fake noise of understanding. “Oh, okay.” He tries to turn back to his shower, still pondering Sánchez's response. “Thanks.”

Sánchez just smiles some more. And just when Neymar thinks that he’s going to have to get Dani to help him, Sánchez tilts his head. “Rafinha,” he says in greeting, nodding goodbye to Rafa. Then he walks away.

Neymar does not look at his butt, but if he did happen to see it, it was probably a very nice one. “What?” he says, looking back at Rafa. “Is that? What?” he asks again, utterly confused. “Am I missing something?”

Rafa laughs. “He’s a good guy. A little weird, but nice. Used to belong to an animal rescue group. But like the daring kind, you know? The ones that stole animals that were being abused—lab animals, dogs from fighting rings and such…” He ducks his face in the water, and then rubs his eyes once he’s out. “Saw somebody hitting these dogs once, with a club or something? Sánchez grabbed the club and beat the shit out of the guy.”

Neymar raises his eyebrows. “Killed him?”

Rafa nods, turning off the water when Neymar gestures that he’s finished. “Yep,” Rafa says, shivering a bit as they walk out of the showers. The room is warm from the hot water, but they can already feel the cooler air from the little cabbie area.

Dani leans over their shoulders, appearing out of nowhere. “Saved the dogs, though,” he adds, pushing them over to where Douglas and Adriano are waiting for them.

Halfway there, Dani steps to the side, keeping his body between Neymar’s and another man showering. It was one of the guys Sánchez had pointed out, but Neymar doesn't remember which one. And he doesn't know why Dani's making a big deal about it, but keeps walking when Dani pushes him along. He glances at the man, only having time to note that he has dark hair and also seems to have odd star tattoos on his elbows, before Dani forces him to move faster.

“What’s the matter?” Neymar asks as Dani herds him out into where Adriano is waiting with their towels. Marcelo appears behind him, already fully dressed.

Dani grits his teeth. “Nothing,” he says at first, but then twitches. “Watch out for him. He’s handsy,” is all he says, taking his own towel and rubbing it through his hair.

Neymar’s still lost, and Adriano looks to be as well. At least until Rafa leans in and whispers, “Gonzalo Jara.” Douglas raises his eyebrows and wiggles a finger in the air, which apparently means something to all of them, but he immediately drops it when Dani spins and gives him a look.

Neymar hums. He wraps a towel around his waist and follows Dani and Rafa over to get new clothes. They’re rough against his skin, but they’re *clean* and they’re infinitely better than his sweaty clothing were. He finds his old shoes and toes them back on, even though his feet are still wet. It's uncomfortable, but until he has shower shoes, he can deal with it.

The man with the dragon tattoo is suddenly in front of him, completely naked and dripping onto Neymar’s toes. “Zlatan does not like you,” he announces angrily, threateningly, bending over to peer into Neymar’s face.

“Um,” Neymar says, blinking. Rafa and Dani are right there, the latter rolling his eyes, so Neymar doesn’t freak out quite yet. “Okay. I don’t know Zlatan, though?”

The man straightens up, eyes fiery and sneer firmly in place. “Zlatan is speaking,” he says derisively, his tone implying that Neymar should have known that. “Zlatan does not like you,” he repeats, turning to spit on the floor in front of them. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, taking a towel and wrapping it atop his head like a turban.

“Um?” Neymar says, adrenaline flooding his body, looking at Dani. He tries to hide how his hands are shaking at being so intimidated.

Because Zlatan looked like he wanted to squeeze the life out of him.

Dani just shakes his head. “Zlatan,” he explains, shrugging. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Neymar looks at him incredulously, trying to calm down. He’s afraid the others can hear his heart trying to thump out of his chest, but nobody even bats an eye.

Dani just shrugs again and ruffles Neymar’s wet hair before walking out.

Rafa tugs him out after that, dragging him back to one of their cells. Rafa’s? Dani’s? Marcelo’s? Adriano and Douglas have gone off somewhere else, and Neymar doesn’t see Lucas or Casemiro. But Neymar still doesn’t know whose it is, nobody says anything about the owner.

It actually looks lived in, though. Or, more lived in than Neymar’s cell. Neymar doesn’t have anything at all. But this cell could almost be mistaken for a bedroom. Like someone has lived here for years. And, well, maybe they have. There are little knickknacks everywhere, jars of dried flowers, stacks of notebooks, photographs tacked to the wall, and even a makeshift shelf of books.

It’s actually homey, and Neymar wonders how long someone would have to be in prison for their cell to look like this.

Neymar doesn't have much more time to look around. “Nap before dinner,” Rafa says, pushing him down on the lower bunk and dropping a pillow on his face.

Neymar groans, having landed on his side and facing the wall. He closes his eyes and just leaves the pillow, too tired to move it off. His body has calmed down on the walk back to the cell, and he’s no longer shaking. He’s just incredibly tired now.

Crashing very quickly.

He can hear Dani laughing in the background, followed by Marcelo saying something in return. Eventually, the pillow is plucked off of him, but Neymar can barely manage to mumble a thank you before he’s asleep.

When he wakes up, he aches like crazy and doesn’t ever want to move again.

Ever.

Again.

Never ever again.

He feels like he worked out for hours at the gym, like he pushed himself too much and strained everything at once. He cringes knowing that he’ll be moving the laundry again the day after tomorrow. It’s not something he’s looking forward to. He’s also a little warm and can’t figure out why, but when he opens his eyes and turns, he sees that Rafa is asleep next to him. He’s cuddled next to him actually. The bottom bunk isn’t very wide, but the two of them fit since they’re both pretty slim.

Neymar squints around the room. Marcelo is sitting on the windowsill, reading a book. His room then, probably? Unless Dani gave him permission to borrow stuff? Neymar doesn’t really know a lot about Marcelo yet, though the other man would probably tell him if he asked. Neymar yawns and makes a note to talk to Marcelo more. He’s too tired to do so now, though.

Nobody else seems to be in the cell with them, although on second look, there appears to be a pair of feet dangling off the top bunk.

Neymar sighs, ribs hurting a bit, so he rolls onto his stomach. It’s a slow process since he doesn’t want to wake Rafa whose sleeping face is turned in his direction. Neymar keeps his eyes focused on Rafa and is thankful to see that the other man never wakes up.

Finally, Neymar is settled, and he falls back asleep almost instantly.

The next time he wakes up it’s because Dani has climbed on top of him and Rafa and the mattress rocks against the wall. “Dinner time, children,” Dani says in a sing-songy voice as Neymar blinks at him. He strokes Neymar’s hair and then Rafa’s with his other hand. “Have to eat to grow up big and strong.”

Neymar groans. “Five more minutes, Dani,” he pleads, eyes fluttering shut as Dani pets his hair some more, fingers combing through the now-dry curls. It feels good, actually, to have someone stroke his hair—it reminds him of when he was little and his mother used to let him curl up in bed with her. Dani’s body is a teensy bit heavy on Neymar’s sore ribs, though. “Please,” he croaks out.

“Five more minutes, Dani,” Dani mimics, but he understands and lifts his weight from Neymar. “Five more minutes, five more minutes,” he sing-songs. “Silly, little boy.” He repeats that a few more times, getting quieter and quieter until he trails off completely.

Dani doesn’t get off the bed, though, and Neymar peers through his lashes to see that his cousin has just moved to the side to lie between Rafa’s legs. Rafa’s lightly dozing now but doesn’t seem to care. Dani’s eyes are shut, too, and he’s resting his head on Rafa’s chest. Rafa, half asleep again, rubs the back of Dani’s neck like he’s used to Dani’s weight before his hands go slack.

There’s really *not* room for three of them to be there comfortably, not on a bunk this size, but Neymar’s not going to complain.

Instead, he takes advantage of Dani’s sleepiness and lets himself rest a few more minutes. Anything to avoid having to actually wake up and move his tired body.

He’s not sure how long it actually is because he falls asleep again quite quickly.

But soft voices eventually wake him up.

Neymar stretches gingerly, deciding that he’s pretty hungry. He’s sore, but his stomach is growling and signaling that it doesn’t care how much the rest of him aches. He looks around. Marcelo isn’t at the window anymore, and there aren’t any feet dangling above him. He turns his head.

Then he freezes.

Dani is still next to him, lying on Rafa. Except now Dani’s pushed Rafa’s shirt up and is brushing his lips against Rafa’s flat belly. Rafa’s head is flung back, hands gripping the back of Dani’s head, and he’s murmuring something that Neymar can’t hear.

As Neymar watches, Dani pulls Rafa’s loose pants down, then down again, this time, a little lower, exposing his hipbones. Dani noses against them, eyes shut, breathing heavily, softly kissing the caramel skin.

Neymar doesn’t know what to do, utterly mortified, but it turns out he doesn’t need to.

“Ney,” Dani says, without opening his eyes. His hand slides up to push Rafa’s shirt up higher until it’s around his nipples. His thumb smooths over one of the peaked buds.

“Yeah, Dani?” Neymar asks, trying not to move, mouth going a little dry.

“Go have dinner,” Dani says, sucking a bruise under Rafa’s bellybutton. Rafa lets out a tiny moan, and Dani smirks, flicking his tongue out to do it again.

“Yeah, okay,” Neymar says, relieved, crawling off the bunk and carefully trying not to touch either of them. He stumbles as he gets out, practically falling in his haste as his body protests at the movement, but he makes it to the doorway without looking back. It’s brighter in the hallway, a few people walking by cluelessly, and he has to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself.

Lucas looks at him as he emerges, having been guarding the cell while leaning against the doorway with Casemiro. He raises his eyebrows at Neymar’s flustered appearance, undoubtedly guessing why Neymar’s cheeks are beet red. But he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he points down to where Marcelo is at the end of the hall. “Go eat.”

Neymar’s stomach growls again, and he nods, trying to forget about what he just saw.

Dinner is much the same as lunch was.

And he’s not sitting there long before Dani and Rafa appear, arms around each other, with Lucas and Casemiro following behind. Dani sits down next to Neymar and smirks again, tapping him on the back of the head. “Dinner and a show, eh?” he says, grinning when Neymar immediately regains the blush he’d just gotten rid of.

The others pick up trays and then join them, with Rafa sliding Dani’s across the table and then sitting on Dani’s other side like normal.

There's some kind of green mush that Neymar particularly likes, and when Dani sees that, another portion miraculously appears on Neymar's plate. "Eat your veggies," Dani says, giggling, wiggling his eyebrows when Neymar scoops up some and swallows it. "Your meal is not nutritionally adequate unless you have extra servings of vegetables," he says in a lower voice, moving his head back and forth like he's imitating somebody.

The impression is lost on Neymar, so he merely takes another spoonful of his mush and gives a thumbs up. "What is it?" he mumbles, chasing it with some water.

Douglas pipes up from the end of the table. "Probably peas," he says. "They're cheap, so..." He shrugs, stirring his own green mush around aimlessly.

Dani smacks his hand on the table and points at Douglas. "Eat your veggies," he repeats in a hard tone, losing his smile.

Douglas nods and immediately begins eating again. The others exchange looks, doing the same.

Dani's fingers start drumming on the table, clearly irritated, and nobody says anything else for awhile, especially when Dani begins to mumble to himself. "They have to eat them," he says, "because they're good for them... have to eat their veggies."

Rafa eventually puts his hand on top of Dani's, gently pressing down until Dani's fingers stop moving.

Dani looks at their hands and quiets, mumbling trailing off until he stops altogether.

Neymar blinks, pausing his chewing, wondering the fuck is happening. But then Rafa leans around Dani to ask him, "So what do you think, Neymar?" Those dark eyes focus on his. "Today wasn't so bad, right? Think you'll get the hang of it around here?"

Neymar swallows. "Well," he says, when Dani stays quiet, "I mean, technically on my first day I witnessed a murder and then got the shit beat out of me, so..." He looks down at his mush and scoops up another spoonful. "Today went swimmingly." He toasts everyone with his spoon and then sticks it in his mouth.

Dani shakes his head and chuckles, seemingly coming out of a trance. His other hand comes up on the table to pat Rafa's, squeezing. "Of course, he'll get the hang of it," he says. "He's one of us after all.”

Neymar stares at him. Because he wonders if it’s true.

Is he one of them?


	7. A God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar finds that he gets used to the routine. Because that’s pretty much a constant.
> 
> Dani comes to fetch him from his cell in the morning like he’s a little kid that needs a babysitter. They go to breakfast, and then they go out to the yard. After a little while they go to lunch, and then they work. Neymar is quite grateful for the off days where they just do the folding, though he can attest that his muscles are actually getting a little stronger from the laundry days. Or, at least they ache like they are. There’s some downtime after they shower—usually Neymar just naps—and then there’s dinner and more free time before lights out.
> 
> It’s monotonous.
> 
> But Neymar thinks that maybe it’s just because his first day was so extreme that nothing now can compare.

Neymar finds that he gets used to the routine. Because that’s pretty much a constant.

Dani comes to fetch him from his cell in the morning like he’s a little kid that needs a babysitter. They go to breakfast, and then they go out to the yard. After a little while they go to lunch, and then they work. Neymar is quite grateful for the off days where they just do the folding, though he can attest that his muscles are actually getting a little stronger from the laundry days. Or, at least they ache like they are. There’s some downtime after they shower—usually Neymar just naps—and then there’s dinner and more free time before lights out.

It’s monotonous.

But Neymar thinks that maybe it’s just because his first day was so extreme that nothing now can compare.

There are fights here and there—in the lunchroom or in the yard, sometimes the guards get involved and sometimes they don’t.

James breaks someone’s nose in line at lunch one day.

There’s an awful lot of screaming that comes from the man he hit, though Neymar doesn’t know exactly what happened. It’s the small blond man that had Neymar thought was part of Ronaldo’s crew. Coentrão or something like that.

But Ronaldo lets the fight happen, doesn’t seem to feel the need to step in.

“I decide,” James just says calmly, watching the man twitch on the floor. He looks down as the blood streams over the man’s hands and begins to puddle on the floor. “I decide,” he repeats, this time, a little louder, looking around at the gathering crowd. Nobody speaks, and James nods as if satisfied. He turns to where Ronaldo has been standing, holding their trays, and takes his back with a grin. Ronaldo doesn’t seem to care that one of his friends is squealing on the ground. The two of them walk off to Ronaldo’s table like it was nothing.

They leave the man lying bleeding on the floor.

Most people ignore the man. Including the guards.

Dani steps over him, giggling, on his way out of the cafeteria.

"What did that mean?" Neymar asks Marcelo later as they're heaving the laundry around. "What James said at lunch? He ‘decides’? I don't get it." He slumps over a washer and wipes his forehead, wondering if he should start wearing a bandana as a headband like Rafa. It wouldn't look as good, he knows--he simply doesn't have the facial structure to pull off wearing headbands. But the sweat running into his eyes certainly makes him think about it.

"Oh? James?" Marcelo asks, resting his bundle on his hip. "He's a cutie, ain't he?" he asks admiringly, starting to break out into a grin. "He meant what he said: he'll decide who gets to touch him." At Neymar's blank look, he laughs. "He's fiery, that one. Got Ronaldo and his gang as his muscle if he really needs someone to back him up, but he's stronger than you think, usually takes care of himself."

"They're together then?" Neymar asks, although he's pretty sure he knows the answer. “Him and Ronaldo? Then why would anyone else touch him? Just seems stupid," he says, thinking about the way Ronaldo had glared in his direction before. “Especially if that guy was Ronaldo’s friend? Like, why would he even try? I wouldn’t want to piss Ronaldo off.”

"Ahh," Marcelo says, nodding. He tilts his head and they carry their wash over to two open dryers. "It's because James was a prostitute." He shuts the lid of the dryer and looks amused at Neymar's gaping mouth. "A real high-end one," Marcelo explains, a smile playing around his lips. "People used to pay good money for his skills... I believe it--the way he moves his hips. Colombians, mmmm?”

"Oh," Neymar says, thinking about James' flirtatious smile and the eyeliner around his eyes. "Is that why he's in here?"

Marcelo laughs. "He's here because the cops tried to pull him over and he wouldn't pull over. Lead them on a merry chase apparently." Neymar's mulling that over when Marcelo adds, "Of course, it was because he didn't want to get caught with the dead body in his trunk." He laughs. "One of his clients tried to take more than James was willing to give."

"Huh," Neymar says, walking back to the washers. "Okay, wouldn't have guessed that." He wonders what it was that the client did to make James snap, but then Enrique wanders dangerously close to Rafa and he forgets all about James in his haste to get to his friend's side.

But after that, Neymar is extra careful not to look at James when Ronaldo is around (which is always). Not that he would ever do anything that would make James break his nose, but he feels he's better keeping his distance. He does, however, find it hard to ignore the way James moves his hips when he walks. "Thanks a lot, Marcelo," he mumbles to himself, after having to remind himself for the third time in three minutes to *fucking* look away before he gets in trouble.

The days pass.

James doesn't break any more noses, but there are still fights. Ramos and Piqué tussle with each other one day at dinner. They’ve got a smaller man between them, a kid really, and they start out joking around with him until he begins to look uncomfortable. It’s like a switch is flipped, as both Ramos and Piqué immediately turn on each other accusingly. The boy, a puppy-like kid with huge blue eyes and shaggy brown hair, tries to calm them down but to no avail. Neymar watches, fascinated, as their friendly banter and jokes turn pushing and shoving and then finally punching and kicking. It's odd, after seeing them play basketball together every day, to see them screaming at each other.

They look like they want to kill each other, and Neymar thinks they might just do it. Over at the Spaniards’ table, Iker is standing and watching as if he’s going to step in. Xavi puts a hand on his arm and pulls him down, saying something and laughing. Iker’s frown disappears for a second and he quirks his lips as he takes his seat again.

Piqué and Ramos continue to fight.

It's not until they start to use trays to break over each other’s heads that the guards finally put a stop to it and drag them away. The boy returns to the Spaniards’ table looking extremely guilty, but he’s only greeted with laughter and Xavi points to one of the empty seats seeming unbothered.

The next morning Ramos and Piqué are playing basketball again like nothing happened, the other Spaniards laughing and hollering as they all watch the duo. The kid, Roberto—a sort of jack of all trades character, as Neymar has learned—is all smiles, too. It's strange, but apparently, a common occurrence to fight violently and then be friends again.

At least for them, that is.

Dani and Isco don’t speak again. Isco walks around looking pitiful with one bandaged hand. He's often seen talking to James, or to Morata—another one of the younger Spaniards. But he doesn’t come near Dani or Rafa ever.

Nobody else gets killed, though. At least, not that Neymar knows about.

He tries to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut, so that he can fit in as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to make any more waves than he already has, and whenever Dani gives him an approving look, Neymar can’t help but be pleased.

Before he’s blinked, he realizes that he’s already been here for a month. He’s thinking that over as they walk out to the yard one day. People scatter as they enter, and it sends a little thrill down his spine to think that he’s part of a pretty powerful group.

Neymar’s learned that the one picnic table out there is definitely Dani’s territory, and anyone who is there when they go outside very quickly moves when they see him coming. It’s the same for most of the yard. Some places are reserved. The Spaniards pretty much play basketball every day, Ronaldo's gang has a corner, and the Argentines—well they do whatever the fuck they want.

Neymar’s talking to Lucas about something when he realizes that table’s gone silent. He looks up and sees that the one they call Kun Agüero is standing there, bad tattoo and all, just looking at him.

“Can I join you?” Agüero asks, staring at Neymar some more, before turning his head to look at Dani.

Dani raises an eyebrow, fingers drumming on the table, but nods.

Agüero smiles, looking down at Adriano who is on Neymar’s other side. There’s a moment where Adriano doesn’t get it, and Agüero’s smile starts to slip. But then Adriano gives a little gasp of understanding and jumps up from the table to go stand awkwardly beside it.

Agüero laughs. “Oh, thank you!” he says pleasantly as if he hadn’t meant for that to happen all along. He sits down next to Neymar, resting his hand on his chin and peering at him.

Neymar wonders if he’s supposed to be the one talking, but then Agüero tilts his head.

“You’re Alves’ cousin, Neymar, right?” Agüero looks as if he already knows the answer, but Neymar nods to be polite.

“Um, yeah, and you’re Kun? Kun Agüero?” Neymar asks, not sure if he’s supposed to call this guy by his first name or his last name.

“Kun to my friends,” Agüero says, a glint in his eye, which doesn’t help Neymar one bit.

“Are we friends?” Neymar can’t help asking, though he knows it’s probably a mistake.

“Maybe,” Agüero says, staring at him intently. His eyes trail down Neymar’s face and then back up. He looks so hard at Neymar that Neymar begins to wonder if maybe there’s some food on his face that nobody told him about.

“Leo gets out, today,” Agüero offers finally, looking somewhat surprised that Neymar hasn’t mentioned it.

That doesn’t mean anything to Neymar, but when he looks across the table, Rafa mouths, “Messi” at him.

“Oh,” Neymar says. “Um, good?” He doesn’t know what Agüero wants from him. “That’s… I’m happy for him? For you?” he says timidly when Agüero continues to stare.

Agüero blinks at him. “Are you?” he asks quietly.

Neymar coughs nervously. “I mean—,” he looks around the table, but nobody says anything. Dani’s eyes are narrowed, but even he is silent. “Yes? I don’t really know him, so… It doesn’t matter to me,” he says, trying to be honest.

Agüero breaks out into a smile. “Is he serious?” he says, leaning around Lucas to look at Dani. Dani only shrugs, and Agüero turns back to Neymar. “Hmmm,” he says, looking confused before leaning in very close to Neymar.

He gets so close that Neymar thinks he’s going to touch him.

Across the table, Marcelo clears his throat.

Agüero stills, staring into Neymar’s eyes. Then he leans back, putting himself at a normal distance. “You didn’t tell anyone what happened. Why is that?” he asks, as if he hadn’t just been totally weird.

Neymar opens his mouth and then shuts it. Agüero waits for his answer.

“The man—,” Neymar says haltingly, “the man who died.” He bites his lip, thinking back. “I didn’t like him.”

“You didn’t really know him,” Agüero says mockingly, repeating Neymar’s words back to him.

Neymar shakes his head, looking down at the table. “No,” he agrees. “But, he was walking by, and he came over to the bars, and he said disgusting things…” He looks up at Agüero and tries to seem braver than he feels. “I wasn’t sorry about what happened to him.”

“And what did happen to him?” Agüero asks softly, so softly that Neymar almost falls for it.

But Neymar’s not a fucking idiot.

“I don’t know,” Neymar says, making his face go blank. “I saw nothing.”

Agüero laughs at him. “Alright,” he says, slapping the table. He stands up as if they’re finished. “You should come see us, later. After dinner. Leo will want to meet you.”

He says it like it’s a suggestion, but Neymar has a feeling it’s a command.

“Maybe,” Dani answers for Neymar, “if he’s not busy.” He doesn’t sound bothered, glancing at his fingernails and then brushing them on his shirt. He pulls them back and admires them, then waves at Agüero like he wants him to leave.

Agüero merely shrugs, eyes glittering. “Do what you want.” Then he’s gone, walking leisurely, people getting out of his way as he treks across the yard. He stops briefly to say something to Iker, receiving a glare in return, and then moves on. Ramos is standing there, too, holding the basketball, but doesn't say anything until Agüero passes.

Adriano, who has been standing next to the table, retakes his seat with a relieved sigh.

Dani narrows his eyes. “You’ll be busy,” he says to Neymar, staring off after Agüero. “You don’t need to jump up and do Agüero’s bidding just yet. Messi will have enough to do after being in solitary for a month. So we’ll wait. Not forever,” he clarifies. His gaze travels over to where Agüero is now talking to Ronaldo, surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Their entourages are standing around like the don’t know whether to talk or fight. “But, yes, Messi will have enough to do,” he says, thinking.

Neymar turns his head. “Does Messi get along with Ronaldo?” he asks.

Dani makes a face. “Does he really get along with anybody?” His head goes from side to side. “But Ronaldo… well, maybe. Yes. They knew each other on the outside. From back in the day. They talk a lot.”

Marcelo gives him a look to which Dani responds by sticking out his tongue. “Might not be true about them knowing each other before,” Marcelo says, looking at Neymar. “I wouldn’t ask either of them about it. If it’s not, neither of them are going to respond favorably.”

“So they might have played football together, you mean?” Neymar asks, raising his eyebrows. “Or you mean Messi was involved in killing Ronaldo’s agent?”

Marcelo laughs. “No, Messi wasn’t involved in that. Though, now you’re making me wonder.” He smiles. “But yeah, what he meant was that Messi supposedly played football, too. You wouldn’t know it to look at him—he’s such a tiny thing, really. But they say he was good. Really good. I could see it, I guess.”

Lucas nudges Neymar with his elbow. “Ronaldo was better, probably. I mean, look at him.” They turn to look at Ronaldo, who’s finished speaking with Agüero and is now whispering to Pepe and Coentrão. Ronaldo towers over the shorter man, shirt tight across his chest, accentuating his strong build.

Casemiro nods. “Imagine Messi and Ronaldo trying to fight for the same ball. It wouldn’t even be a contest.”

“They knew each other,” Dani insists, chewing on his sunglasses. They’re a bright red today as opposed to his leopard spotted ones. “They knew each other and they played against each other.” He grins at Neymar. “Annnnnnnnnnnd,” he says, drawing the word out. “Messi was better.”

“You’re so full of shit, Dani,” Rafa says suddenly. He claps Dani on the arm. “You have no idea, you’re just messing with us,” he says smiling, tugging on Dani’s sleeve. “What a storyteller you are.”

Dani puts his glasses back on. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, putting his nose in the air. “Messi was better. End of story.”

Neymar hums. Then he makes himself stop, a little embarrassed that he’s picked up the habit from Dani so quickly.

“You guys never did tell me,” Neymar says, looking over his shoulder really quickly to make sure nobody’s within hearing distance. “What exactly is Messi in for?”

Nobody answers and Dani’s smile twists into something unpleasant.

“I mean,” Neymar soldiers on. “I know he’s dangerous. I get that, I can see that…” It’s very easy to remember the way Messi had slit Higuaín’s throat like it meant nothing. *Very easy*. “But like, what did he do exactly?”

Dani sighs. “Tax evasion.”

Neymar blinks. “What?” He looks at Dani and then glances around the table. “That’s it?”

Nobody else says anything, although Marcelo is grimacing.

“Yep,” Dani says, eyes hidden behind his glasses. “Alonso, Nadal, Messi,” he says as if Neymar should know these people. “Gets all of them, eventually. Pay your taxes or pay the price.” He looks at his wrist. “Would you look at the time,” he says, gesturing to nothing. “We’re late for lunch.” He stands up, arm around Rafa’s waist. “Come on, children.”

“You don’t even have a watch,” Rafa is saying, laughing as they start to walk over towards the door. “How do you always *know*?” The guards are just moving to opening it, looking like they’re ready to ring the bell to signal it’s time to move.

Everyone starts to go in, Lucas and Casemiro close behind Dani, while Marcelo waits for Neymar to get to his feet.

Neymar stands, motioning Adriano and Douglas ahead. Then he touches Marcelo’s arm. “It wasn’t really tax evasion, was it?” he asks, unable to believe it.

Marcelo shakes his head. “It’s what they got him on,” he says quietly, pulling Neymar to the side as a crowd of people pass by. “It’s how they get a lot of people when they can’t prove what other crimes they’ve really committed. You get me? Murderers, thieves… Easier to get them on tax issues than anything else. But Messi? If you thought what Agüero did was bad…” He shakes his head again. “Best not to talk about it.”

Neymar tries to forget about Messi then. And he succeeds.

Or rather, he forgets about Messi until dinner time. Because it’s a little hard to miss the way everyone seems to go still when the small, unassuming man enters the cafeteria in the company of a group of guards. The guards unlock the cuffs around Messi’s hands and ankles, the chains clinking as they gather them up and take a step back. Their eyes warily watch the inmate, some of them keeping their hands on their nightsticks as if they might need them at any moment.

Messi acts like they’re not there. He doesn’t taunt them or even look at them. He drops his hands to his sides, red marks stark around his pale wrists from the cuffs.

But he’s casual, like it’s nothing.

Like he doesn’t care.

Like didn’t just spend a month in solitary while the guards tried to figure out how to prove he murdered somebody.

But maybe, to him, it is nothing.

Neymar looks down at his tray of food as Messi enters, afraid of making eye contact. But then he can’t help himself from looking up through his lashes to watch the other man step away from the guards.

Because Messi just seems so calm, so cool, so collected. He’s smiling a little, walking slowly through the maze of tables to join Masche, Agüero, Di María, Lavezzi, and Rojo. Nobody gets in his way, everyone either sitting down at their own tables, or deliberately walking a different path to avoid his.

Messi’s gaze travels around the room lazily, making eye contact with a few people who shrivel in response. He’s threatening without even trying, his aura exuding danger.

And at the same time, he commands respect.

Neymar’s captivated.

If Dani’s a king, then Messi is something more than a king… a God.

It’s the strangest thing. He looks so normal, so small, so unassuming that Neymar might have walked right by him on the street and not even given him a second thought… but *here*, he’s somehow unlike anything Neymar’s ever seen. There’s something about him, just something Neymar can’t put his finger on, something indescribable. And it makes Neymar remember the way Messi had spoken to him. It had only been a few words, but Neymar had wanted to give him the right answer, wanted to please him…

But Messi doesn’t speak to him now.

Messi doesn’t even look at him.

That powerful gaze skims over the faces at Neymar’s table, only pausing to blink at Dani for a second before moving on. It’s more of a greeting than a warning, and Messi doesn’t even stop walking to do it. Dani doesn’t react, having gone as motionless as the rest of the inmates, his normal finger tapping nowhere to be seen.

Neymar lets out a breath he didn’t know he was even holding, watching as Messi continues walking to his table.

The other man sinks gracefully into his seat—the open spot, the spot that had been left empty at that table for the entire month. He looks to Agüero on his left and then to Masche on his right, dark eyes saying something that only they can understand. Across from them, Rojo pushes a tray of food towards Messi which is accepted with a slight nod.

And then, Messi eats.

Neymar guesses that he’s human, after all.

Slight chatter starts up in the cafeteria, whispers and murmurs buzzing so quickly that it irritates Neymar’s ears. Dani’s fingers start tapping again, and mumbles, “Fucking Messi,” to himself before he goes back to his own food.

Neymar picks up his fork to return to his dinner, still watching Messi through his lashes. He wants to look away, but can’t.

“And you want me to wait,” Neymar says, playing with his food. “To go to him,” he clarifies when Dani swivels his head in his direction.

Dani stares at him, chewing something noisily. “Agüero ain’t the boss of you,” Dani says. He swallows and then tilts his head. “Messi ain't the boss of you either, by the way... But anyways, like I said, Messi will have enough to do tonight. Other people to talk to.” He takes another bite of his glop. “He already knows you haven’t snitched on him, he is just gonna wanna know why.”

“And what do I tell him?” Neymar asks, putting his fork down, suddenly losing his appetite. He considers the fact that *Dani* is probably the boss of him, but is strangely okay with that.

Dani laughs. “You tell him whatever you want. Whatever gets you your favor.”

Marcelo sighs. “You’re gonna get him killed, Dani,” he says, rolling his eyes. Dani merely takes another bite, grinning wildly. Marcelo looks at Neymar. “You just tell him the truth: you aren’t a snitch. You're not in Guardiola's pocket. You don’t want trouble. That’s it.”

“And that’ll be enough?” Neymar asks. He starts picking his nails.

Marcelo just looks at him. “It will or it won’t,” he says honestly.

After dinner, Dani taps him on the back of the head and sends him back to his cell with Casemiro. They have no other choice but to pass Messi’s cell on their way, and Neymar nervously fidgets the whole time.

“Relax,” Casemiro says, thumbs in his belt loops. “Dani’s right. You aren’t Messi’s priority tonight.” He mumbles something under his breath that Neymar doesn't understand, but then refuses to repeat it.

Still, Neymar holds his breath as they walk by, noting that Rojo’s posted at the door like a sentry. Through the doorway, Neymar can see Messi sitting on top of his desk, feet dangling inches off the floor like a child. Masche is sitting in a chair by his side, hunched over, elbows on his knees, eyes focused on someone standing in front of them.

It’s hard to see who it is, the dim light making it dark in the cell.

Neymar and Casemiro walk by somewhat quickly. Or, Neymar does at least, avoiding eye contact with Rojo who seems to be glaring at him. Casemiro takes his time and sneers in Rojo’s direction, uncaring that the other man looks like he wants a fight. In any case, just before they move on, Neymar squints to see who Messi’s talking to. Rojo shifts at just the right moment, and a beam of light from the hallway brightens up the room, reflecting off an earring as the man turns slightly.

It’s Ronaldo.

Neymar wonders what they’re talking about, Dani’s story about them knowing each other echoing in his mind, but then Casemiro grabs his arm and tugs him down the hall. "Ney! Come on." They don’t stop until they reach Neymar’s cell, and Neymar is left alone once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messi has returned. 
> 
> And nothing will ever be the same.
> 
> *dramatic music*
> 
> (hope you liked! xo)


	8. It Was Just Dancing

It’s hard for Neymar to sleep that night without thinking about Messi. There's a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he remembers the way those dark eyes had skipped over him in the cafeteria. 

Like he was nothing.

He keeps thinking over what Marcelo said, suddenly worried beyond belief that it won’t be enough that he's stayed quiet—that Messi will kill him to keep Guardiola from finding out what really happened to Higuaín.

It would make the most sense, right? 

Kun and Masche would have told Messi that Neymar had kept things quiet... And the fact that Guardiola had to let Messi out of solitary would have indicated that they didn't have any evidence of what happened. 

But...

Still.

Messi was a murderer. 

And that was just something Neymar knew himself, something that he had seen with his own eyes. It wasn't even counting whatever it was that Messi had done on the outside--whatever terrible things Messi had done and everyone was afraid of even speaking about.

In any case, killing Neymar wouldn’t be a big deal to him. Just one more dead body. Like swatting a fly. And then Masche would be the only witness left, and he was clearly somebody Messi trusted.

Yes, it would make sense for Messi to kill Neymar.

Neymar squeezes his eyes shut, his stomach twisting into knots. He's probably fucked.

Especially since Guardiola had been sniffing around Neymar all month. And Messi probably knew that.

The first week, Guardiola was one of the guards on the wall out in the yard. His eyes had followed Neymar’s every move. The next week, he’d been one of the few in the cafeteria, watching who Neymar talked to. Not to mention that he’d bumped into Neymar in the corridor on purpose nearly every day, shoving him hard with his shoulder, ‘accidentally’ hitting Neymar’s injured ribs. Each time he asked if Neymar had anything to say. 

Neymar had been polite and ducked his head, saying no, stepping to the side behind Dani or Casemiro or whoever was with him. But it had shaken him. Guardiola had been everywhere, watching him no matter where he went. Always smiling.

Made Neymar wonder if he’d made the wrong choice in taking Messi’s side.

At the time, Neymar had been sure it was best for him to stay silent. Was it the way Messi held himself? The glint in his eyes? The wink? Whatever it was, the curve of Messi’s smile had made Neymar feel like he’d chosen correctly.

Now it’s just the anticipation that’s driving Neymar mad. 

When morning comes, his nails are bitten down to stubs, and he’s sure there are shadows bruised under his eyes from the way he tossed and turned. Nevertheless, he sits up and waits for Dani to fetch him, twiddling his thumbs and drawing little geometric designs with his toes in the dust on the floor.

It's weird not having a roommate like the others. Granted it's nice to have a little privacy in his cell at night... But it's still weird because everyone else seems to have one, and he doesn't. Neymar wonders if maybe it's because Guardiola's just biding his time for something.

In any case, Neymar gets bored of not having anyone to talk to. He sticks his head out of his cell and looks down the hallway. There are people everywhere, on their way to breakfast or the showers. 

But no Dani.

Neymar walks back into his cell, sweeping his foot over his dust art, then coughing when the dust floats through the air and gets sucked into his lungs. "Stupid," he mutters to himself, coughing again and ducking away from the particles he can still see in the light.

Eventually, he goes back to the doorway and decides he'll just go to Rafa's cell, which is where they usually all hang out when they have free time. He's halfway down the corridor when he realizes Messi's cell is ahead. He slows his pace and bites his lip before deciding to just go for it. He speed-walks by, turning his head very quickly to see that... 

Nobody is there.

The cell is empty. For a second, Neymar thinks about going inside, taking a closer look around. There are papers and notebooks scattered across the desk and a few pictures on the shelf by the window. He can't see much of anything from the door and takes a step inside. 

Then he gets ahold of himself and realizes *this is an unbelievably stupid fucking idea* and backs out so he can keep walking.

He sheepishly returns to heading down the hallway, feeling like an idiot, but also extremely lucky that nobody caught him. He's still shaking his head and he’s only gone a few more cells when he starts to hear music. It’s catchy, the kind of samba he used to dance to in the clubs at night, and he finds himself almost drifting towards the cell playing it. He stops in the doorway without thinking.

Because James is there dancing by himself.

And it is amazingly distracting.

The Colombian notices Neymar immediately, lashes fluttering in invitation, but he doesn’t stop moving his hips, doesn’t stop shimmying his body. He’s sweating a little from the movement and the heat, his white tank top sticking to him. It doesn’t look like it bothers him, and in fact, he starts to move faster, moving so quickly that Neymar takes a half step inside incredulously to watch him.

He catches himself a second later, freezing as it occurs to him that he has got to stop just going into cells that aren't his.

James just smiles, darting forward and grabbing his wrist, pulling him in closer. Neymar goes as if he's in a trance, allowing himself to be tugged towards the other man and into the dance, trying to match his pace even though it’s impossible. 

James laughs, throwing his head back and revealing his pearly white teeth. “Like this,” he says, taking Neymar’s hands and putting them on his hips.

“Oh,” Neymar says, freezing. “I wasn’t,” he says, trying to make it clear that he doesn’t have any expectations. His fingers carefully stay where James placed them, even though his first instinct is to touch the sliver of skin peeking out above James' waistband.

He doesn’t want to get punched in the nose.

James smiles at him, this time, a little kinder. “I know,” he says simply. “Don’t worry.” Then he holds Neymar’s hands to his hips and starts shaking them. “Like this,” he explains again, swiveling slowly. 

Neymar watches, mesmerized. 

“Now, you,” James says.

Neymar laughs. “I don’t think I can move like that,” he says, biting his lip as he concentrates, trying to mimic the way James moves. He starts to shimmy, breaking out into a smile as he gets close. “That’s all I can do,” he says honestly, a little out of breath as they keep going. His shoes are squeaking on the floor, his feet moving faster than they have in awhile.

James laughs. “Faster! Faster!” he says, putting his hands on Neymar’s hips and urging him on. They dance like that for a few minutes, shaking and shimmying and twirling around in circles, the beat thumping through their bodies like they’re in a club. Eventually, James’ hands slide down to Neymar’s ass to pull him closer.

“Hands, James,” someone says over the music, voice coming from the corner.

Neymar jumps back from James as if he’s been burned, looking at the figure he hadn't noticed until now. He'd been so focused on James that he hadn't thought to even look around and see if anyone else was there.

Ronaldo is casually relaxing on the bottom bunk, arms behind his head, feet crossed at the ankles. Apparently, he's been there the whole time, lazily watching them dance. 

Neymar's not sure what to think of that.

James laughs. “It was just dancing,” he coos in response, moving by himself now as Ronaldo smiles. He raises his hands above his head and twirls.

Neymar tries not to draw attention to himself, amazed by the way Ronaldo is actually showing emotion.

“As long as that's all it was,” Ronaldo says, sticking his tongue out at James who laughs again. Ronaldo raises his eyebrows at Neymar, seeming dismissive. “And as long as he knows that, too.”

Neymar does know that. 

He knows that a lot, and really wants to make that clear before he gets killed here. But before he can say anything in his defense, James slows his movements.

“I decide,” James says again, like he had in the cafeteria, seeming to not care that Ronaldo could squash him like a bug. His cheeks are flushed, chest heaving from dancing, hips barely moving now.

Ronaldo smiles easily, though. “Of course you do, darlin’,” he says, relaxing back onto the bunk. He turns his head this way and that, looking at how Neymar’s still frozen in the middle of the room. “I've always said that haven't I? Go on, then,” Ronaldo says, tilting his chin.

James grins. He bounds towards the bed and crawls on top of Ronaldo. 

Ronaldo doesn't move, keeps his arms behind his head, lets James do what he wants.

“So good to me,” James says appreciatively, kissing him lightly on the lips, barely giving him a taste before he’s crawling out of the bunk again. “Come on, then,” James says, returning to Neymar, looking flirtatiously over his shoulder as Ronaldo licks his lips and continues to watch them.

Neymar allows himself to be coaxed back into dancing, but he’s careful where they both put their hands. At least at first. After a few songs, though, he forgets everything and just dances, having the most fun he’s had in ages. “Where did you get this music?” he asks after one song ends and James darts to the side to put on another he likes better.

“Cristiano gets me whatever I want,” James says, all smiles again, pulling Neymar close. He gestures around the cell to where Neymar can see all sorts of pretty things: shiny mirrors, bottles of lotion and tubes of makeup, colorful scarves and luxurious looking blankets. "Oh, yes," James says, starting to shimmy again. "That's why I keep him around. Isn't it, Cris?" he calls over his shoulder, pursing his lips.

Ronaldo snorts. "Of course, darlin'," he says, eyes watching James somewhat fondly. 

"Oh, is that it?" comes a voice from the door. "I always wondered the reason."

Neymar turns around to see Marcelo leaning in the doorway. "Come along, Ney," Marcelo says over the music, crooking his finger. "You'll miss breakfast."

Neymar opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it. 

James, on the other hand, has no such qualms. "Marcelllllllo," James whines childishly. "You're taking my dancing partner," he says sadly, trying to hold onto Neymar's belt loops. "He's really good... I want him to stay with me!"

Marcelo takes a step inside the cell, laughing. 

Ronaldo sits up warily in response, arms stretched out behind him to prop himself up. Neymar tenses too, but all Marcelo does is tug Neymar away. 

"You have another one over on the bed there," Marcelo says to James, pointing a thumb at Ronaldo. “Put him to work. But this one is ours, so I'm gonna have to take him with me."

James pouts, but lets go. "Dani will let me borrow him if I ask," he says, brightening as the thought occurs to him. He starts to dance by himself again, twirling and shimmying, unable to stay still with the beat continuously thumping through the cell.

"Will he?" Neymar wonders out loud, as Marcelo grabs his wrist and leads him out into the hallway. 

As he looks back, he sees Ronaldo is finally approaching James, wrapping his arms around the smaller man and plastering himself to his back. James never stops moving his hips, and the last thing Neymar sees before he's dragged away is Ronaldo bending down to kiss his neck.

"Was it so bad that I was dancing?" Neymar asks as they go down the hallway. It's starting to get more crowded and he stays close to Marcelo. "I waited awhile but Dani never came to get me. And then I started walking because, well I don't know, but I started thinking I would meet you all at Rafa's cell," he rambles, walking quickly. "And then I heard the music, and James pulled me in, and it didn’t seem like it was a big thing… Was that okay?”

Marcelo snorts. “It was fine. James is fine,” he says, guiding Neymar through the maze of people.

Neymar watches him for a few seconds. “You like him,” he says smiling.

Marcelo’s expression doesn’t change. “I said I did,” he says, putting a hand on Neymar’s back and propelling him forward gently. “He’s a looker.”

Neymar laughs. “Yeah, but,” he says, going along, “I think you *like* him.” He scuffs his shoes on the concrete. “He seemed to like you, you know,” he adds after a minute. “Smiled a lot at you.”

Marcelo hums. “Any time you think James likes you,” he says slowly, “I want you to take a good look around you and see who else is there watching.” He tilts his head at Neymar. “You know what I mean?”

Neymar doesn’t.

Marcelo sees that and laughs. “He likes me as a friend, maybe, and that’s fine. We’re sorta friends, I guess. We get along. I don’t have any problems with him and he doesn’t have any problems wth me. So long as we’re not feuding with his crew. But any more than that? Absolutely not.” He smirks. “Anything more is just a little show for Ronaldo.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Neymar says, but then he starts thinking about the way James had danced with him.

Marcelo laughs again and gives him a look. He stops walking and crosses his arms. “You think you know more than me? Next thing you'll be trying to tell me is I've been celebrating my birthday on the wrong day all these years..." He shakes his head. "Kid, I’ve been here a lot longer than you have, okay?” He pulls Neymar to the side as a few of the Chileans pass.

Neymar leans against the wall watching Vidal and Jara walk by. The former glares at him while the latter purses his lips mockingly. Neymar feels uneasy and leans into Marcelo's space. “Why didn’t Dani come get me?” he asks, scuffing his shoes again. There isn’t as much dust in the hallway but he still tries to make a little design in the dirt. “He’s supposed to come get me.”

Marcelo starts moving again once there's space in the hallway, tossing a glance over his shoulder to make sure Neymar is following. “You ain’t the most important thing in his life, kid,” he mutters, watching other people move out of their way. “Probably should remember that.”

Neymar frowns, trying to work that out. “You mean, like because of Rafa?” He thinks about the way his cousin is around Rafa. “I’m okay with that,” he concedes. “I mean, I’m not competing with Rafa or anything. He’s my friend.”

Marcelo twists his lips. “Yeah, and you haven’t been here that long. I know you’re family, and everything, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Just… remember, okay?” he says before they continue on. “You’re a good kid, but sometimes you need to try to watch out for yourself...”

Neymar is surprised, but nods. “Okay,” he says as they enter the cafeteria. Neither Dani nor Rafa is there. Actually, the others are all missing too, except for Douglas and Adriano. “Morning!” Neymar greets, sitting down after he grabs a tray. Marcelo sits down next to him.

Adriano and Douglas exchange a look. “Hey,” Adriano says. “Weren’t sure you were going to make it.” Douglas makes a sound of agreement, digging into his food.

Neymar eyes them strangely. “Yeah,” he says, eating a spoonful of his oatmeal. He brightens then, remembering how much fun he had dancing. “Just talking to James, is all,” he says. He hums as he thinks about the music.

Adriano smirks. “Talking?” 

Neymar smiles. “Well,” he admits, “dancing. But it was fun and not whatever you’re implying. Marcelo can vouch for me, right?” He turns to look at Marcelo who rolls his eyes but nods.

Douglas and Adriano dissolve into giggles, so Neymar just shrugs and finishes eating. Marcelo does the same and after a few minutes, their group heads out to the yard.

“Oh,” Neymar says, stopping abruptly. 

Marcelo bumps into his back. “What?” he asks, taking a step around Neymar and looking side to side as if somebody had threatened them.

“I have to pee,” Neymar admits sheepishly.

Marcelo rolls his eyes, something which he seems to be doing quite often. “Go,” he orders, pointing in the direction of the cells. “But don’t dawdle. There and back, quickly.” He raises an eyebrow. “I mean it. Don’t stop unless it’s for one of us.”

Neymar nods, feeling the need to dance in place a little.

“Oh my god, just go,” Marcelo says. “I’ll wait right here.” 

Neymar practically jogs back to his cell. He thankfully doesn’t meet anybody and is able to do his business in relative peace. On the way back he decides to walk by Rafa’s cell even though Marcelo told him not to. He is surprised to see Rafa along with Lucas and Casemiro standing around inside. “Hey! Everything okay?” he asks, wondering why they’re all still there. “Where's Dani?"

Rafa opens his mouth to speak, but just then Dani storms into the cell.

“Everybody get the fuck out!” Dani shouts, throwing his glasses across the room. They smash into pieces as they hit the window. “I said, get out!” Dani screams when nobody moves. He viciously stomps on a few pieces of plastic that have landed near him, grinding the bits into the dust. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

Neymar takes a step back, realizing that those are--were--Dani's favorite leopard spotted glasses.

And that this is the angriest he’s ever seen his cousin. 

Lucas and Casemiro move to the door immediately, and Rafa goes to do the same. But then Dani points a finger at Rafa, his hand shaking, and Rafa stays where he is. Dani begins mumbling to himself, eyes full of rage, working himself up more with every breath. Rafa timidly sits down on the lower bunk, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees like he’s bracing himself.

Dani’s still spitting mad, chest heaving furiously.

Neymar’s afraid to move.

But he must make some sort of sound because Dani turns in his direction. His cousin walks over to him and grabs the back of his neck. “And you,” he hisses, giving him a little shake. 

Neymar's frozen, unable to speak, and Dani leans in closer to him. 

“Don’t go anywhere alone. You hear me, Ney?” His breath is hot against Neymar’s face. “Take Douglas for all I fucking care, but nowhere alone.”

Neymar nods again meekly.

“Good. Now get out.”

Neymar scrambles back, bumping into Casemiro. The other man catches him and passes him to Lucas, who hustles him out of the cell.

Rafa stays.

And Neymar doesn’t look back.

“What happened?” he whispers when he finally finds his voice, as Lucas starts pulling him down the hall and towards the yard. “I don’t understand.”

Casemiro shakes his head. “Leave it, Ney.”

Lucas mumbles something as they go around the corner. “Trouble,” he says. “That’s what.” But that’s all he says, and Neymar feels incredibly unsettled.

When they get out to the doorway, Marcelo is standing there waiting. Casemiro shakes his head and pushes him outside and over into a seat at the picnic table. Marcelo follows, brow furrowed and arms crossed. “What happened?”

Casemiro nods his head to the side, and the two of them walk over to have a private conversation.

Neymar shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says again, trying to stay calm, especially when he knows people all around the yard are looking at them. Over to his side, he can see Marcelo’s face smooth out as he hears what happened. “What trouble?” Neymar asks Lucas, pulling on his sleeve. “What trouble?”

“Be quiet,” Lucas says softly. “This is not the place.”

Neymar draws his hand back to himself, trying to keep calm. But he’s worried. He’s worried and he’s upset, and he’s also a little angry because nobody will tell him anything and it sucks. Normally, he’d ask Rafa or Dani, but clearly, that’s not something he can do in this situation. 

He wants to stomp off and go punch a wall, but Dani’s words echo in his head: nowhere alone.

Neymar slumps over against the picnic table and closes his eyes.

A hand patting his head makes him open them in a hurry, and Neymar squints up into the sun to see that James is above him. “What’s the matter?” the other man asks him cheerfully.

Neymar sits up. “Nothing,” he says, faking a smile. “Just tired. Dancing wears me out, I think?”

James laughs, looking at Neymar and then the others on the table. “Well,” he says sweetly, “anytime you’re up for more, you come find me, okay?” 

Neymar smiles back, brightening without meaning to. “Sure thing,” he promises, watching as James walks away, swinging his hips.

Marcelo sits down next to him. “Remember what I said,” he whispers, tilting his head across the yard. Neymar follows his gaze to see that Ronaldo is standing there with Quaresma watching him. “It’s not about you, is all,” Marcelo adds as James skips over and flings himself at Ronaldo.

Neymar’s good mood vanishes again. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, slumping down again. He rests his head there until the bell rings and it’s time to go inside again. Mostly because he doesn’t want to talk to anybody. 

Also because nobody wants to talk to him.

Lunch is a quiet affair. 

Dani is there this time. Still mad. He’s twitching every few seconds, fork stabbing his food angrily. He keeps mumbling to himself, scratching his head, looking around the room as if he’s going to kill someone. His eyes jump from table to table, from guard to guard, wildly darting around every time someone stands up.

Rafa is beside him, picking at his food. 

His eyes look red.

Like he’s been crying.

Neymar doesn’t know what to do. He eats his food, looking to Douglas and Adriano as if they can help. But neither of them say anything. They all just keep their heads down and focus on their meals. Afterward, in the laundry room, it’s the same thing. Everybody does their work. Nobody talks to him. 

Dani throws the wet linens into the dryers like he has a personal vendetta against them.

Rafa stays glued to Dani's side, walks wherever Dani walks, follows him around like he's afraid to do anything else. He keeps his face turned away from Neymar and doesn’t talk to him.

Every time Neymar thinks about saying something, Casemiro or Lucas nudge him and give him a warning look. Neymar only sighs and continues transporting his wet bundles over to the dryers like he’s supposed to. 

It sucks.

Everything sucks.

Afterward, they shower in silence again. He has his own soap and shampoo now and doesn’t need to share with Rafa. His friend doesn’t look at him the entire time, keeps his face looking at the wall.

Neymar wants to punch something.

Not even James’ continuous smiling across the room can make him feel better. Not that it would, because Neymar now knows it’s all a show for Ronaldo. He turns his back on James and just focuses on cleaning himself.

The walk back to the cells is nerve-wracking and Neymar is half afraid that Dani is going to yell at them again. Instead, they all walk together in a group. Even Adriano and Douglas are there, though they normally would have gone to their own cells. 

Neymar doesn’t know what it means.

Dani shoves him down on the lower bunk. “Sit,” he says, not sounding angry anymore. He doesn’t sound normal either. His voice is scratchy, like he's been yelling, and he keeps mumbling to himself, pacing the length of the cell as they all stare at him. "Yes," he says, reaching the wall and turning around. "Of course, but," he says walking back and scratching his head. "It's necessary."

Neymar wants to look at Rafa again, wants him to calm Dani down. 

But Rafa won’t meet his eyes, and that’s worrying.

After a few minutes of silence, aside from Dani’s mumbling, James shows up. Neymar looks to the door in surprise as Lucas and Casemiro part to let him in. “Dani?” James says, looking curious. He sashays closer, seeming tentative as if he senses the atmosphere.

“Did you bring it?” Dani asks, hopping up on the desk wearily.

“Yes,” James says, “though I don’t think you need it.”

Dani smiles finally, but it isn’t a nice smile. “I don’t care what you think,” he says, shrugging. "But it's not for me." He points over at Neymar. 

James makes a sound in his throat that Neymar can’t interpret. It sounds like surprise. Then James shrugs. He walks over to Neymar and straddles him.

“What—what are you doing?!” Neymar asks, feeling slightly hysterical. His hands go to James’ hips automatically, torn between pushing him away and making sure the other man doesn’t fall. “James?! Dani?! Why—what-I don’t understand!”

James shushes him. “Just, be quiet for a minute,” he says, peering at Neymar’s face. “And be very still.” He raises his hand up to Neymar’s face and Neymar flinches. “It’s just makeup,” James finally says, softening his tone. “I’m just putting makeup on your eyes, okay?” He’s smiling flirtatiously again, but Neymar is totally lost. “Don’t. Move.”

"Dani," Neymar whispers, staying very still as James begins to paint his eyes. "Dani?"

Dani taps his fingers against the desk. "Be quiet," he says, voice still scratchy. "I want you to be quiet and let him work."

And so Neymar sits, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second, his eyes starting to itch as James works. At one point he raises his hand to scratch, and James hits his hand away. 

"Don't touch," James snaps, focusing once more on his task. When he's finished, James nods approvingly. "There," he says, honeyed tone back in his voice. "He doesn't need more than that. Has good eyes," he admits, looking over to Dani. 

Dani hops up, walking over and leaning down to peer at Neymar's face. "But--," James says before Dani interrupts him.

"Good enough," Dani says.

Neymar doesn't know if he's talking about the makeup, or about his eyes in general.

James leans in and lightly kisses Neymar on the cheek. "Good eyes," he whispers against Neymar's skin. And then he's up, all smiles. "Later, Dani," he throws over his shoulder, hips swiveling as he walks out of the cell. 

Marcelo looks after him.

Dani doesn't.

"I don't understand," Neymar says again, as Dani turns his face this way and that, studying James' work. "Please, Dani," he says, practically whimpering, "why do I need this? Did I do something wrong?" He flicks his eyes at Rafa, at Marcelo, at the others circled around. "I don't understand."

Dani lets go of his chin. "No," he says shortly, a flicker of regret coloring his tone. "*You* did nothing wrong."

Neymar feels an overwhelming relief flood his body. "Oh, thank god," he says, taking a deep breath. He licks his lips. "I'm sorry, but I still don't understand." He keeps repeating himself, he knows it, but he's still completely lost. "Why did you want James to do this? I don't understand," he murmurs.

"You don't need to," Dani says, shrugging. He walks over to the desk and sorts through a drawer until he's found a pair of sunglasses he likes. They're completely black. "Stand up, you're coming with me."

Neymar stands instantly.

"You're sure?" Marcelo asks suddenly. He looms over them, looking first at Neymar and then at Dani. "You want to do this? We could--"

"I'm sure," Dani says, interrupting him. "Might not even--," he says before abruptly shutting his mouth. He scratches his head again. "But he's coming. Just in case."

Marcelo looks like he disagrees, but he doesn't protest. "Let's go then." He rolls up his sleeves as if steeling himself and then gestures to Lucas and Casemiro to head to the hallway. "Get this over with," he grumbles.

"No," Dani says. Everyone turns to look at him. "Just Neymar. Nobody else."

Neymar's heart starts beating so loudly that he's sure everyone can hear it.

Marcelo gives Dani a look, but then nods. "Of course," he says, crossing his arms. "If you think that's best." His tone implies that he thinks the opposite, but he doesn't say anything else.

"I do," Dani says. "Ney," he says, "with me."

Marcelo sighs as Neymar walks by, but dips his head as if that's supposed to mean something. Whatever that is, Neymar has no clue, but the twisting in his stomach makes him think that it isn't anything good. 

The rest of the group parts to let Neymar walk through. Adriano and Douglas are huddled off to the side whispering, while Lucas and Casemiro watch him strangely. Neymar gets to the hallway and looks back to see that Dani is trailing his fingertips against Rafa's jaw.

"Dani," Rafa murmurs, leaning into the touch. "Don't..." His eyes start to get watery and he clutches Dani's wrist. "You don't have to do this."

"Enough. You, princesa, be quiet," Dani says in low voice, staring down at Rafa. "Be quiet, and *stay* here. Here in this room with the others. When I'm back we'll talk." He smooths his thumb across Rafa's lips and then drops his hand, shaking off Rafa and following Neymar out of the cell. 

"Now," Dani says, wrapping an arm around Neymar's shoulders as they start to walk, "we're off to see the wizard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick after I got home from Spain. Of course. And I'm still sick, which sucks because I barely have any energy to do anything. I'm still behind on other fics and comments, but I wanted to post this because it's been awhile. Hope you enjoy xo


	9. Some Kind of Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything seems normal.
> 
> But Neymar knows it's not.
> 
> Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Neymar wants to ask more about where they’re going. 

So he does. 

Or rather, he tries.

Neymar clears his throat and forces himself to ask. "Dani? Um... Where are we going?" He stumbles as he's pulled down the hall, tripping over a crack or something. His feet skid on the concrete, but he doesn't lose his balance completely. "Dani?" 

But Dani doesn't really reply. He just shakes his head. "Just wait."

Neymar wants to ask again, but he's too unsettled. And Dani's arm is a little too tight, squeezing his shoulders like Neymar’s about to run away from him. So Neymar bites his tongue this time. He doesn't know why Dani's squeezing him, doesn't know why Dani is acting like this.

It’s not like Neymar has anywhere he could run to.

Or *anyone* he could run to. 

He couldn't go the guards obviously. Not unless he wants to be labeled a snitch and then killed one night in his sleep. 

Or worse.

And Neymar didn't talk to Guardiola when he first got here, so there's no way he's going to talk to the man now. Especially since the guard has always put Neymar on edge, and never seems to genuinely care about his well-being--no matter what he promises he makes.

Not to mention the way that Guardiola's close friend Enrique always makes Neymar's skin crawl.

So Neymar can't, and won't, go to the guards.

But really, there's nobody for Neymar to go to. 

He doesn’t have any other friends here. It’s Rafa and Marcelo, Douglas and Adriano, and Lucas and Casemiro. That's it. The Brazilians are his friends, and he counts himself lucky to have them. 

And maybe there aren't that many of them, but they've made his new life way better than it could have been.

Neymar walks in the hallways with Lucas and Casemiro, the other men keeping the riff raff away from them while Neymar yammers on and tries to make them smile. He's still working on Lucas, but he's always successful with Casemiro when he brings up Harry Potter.

In the cafeteria, he eats his meals with Adriano and Douglas, trading silly jokes until they're all giggling madly. Sometimes this results in food fights, with all three of them running away the second the guards start approaching.

He talks with Marcelo during downtime, teasing him about his crush on James. Despite denying it, Marcelo's grins give his true feelings away. Marcelo is quick to change the subject, spending most of the time giving Neymar advice or telling stories about his old life.

And Rafa?

Neymar works in the laundry room with Rafa. 

He showers next to Rafa.

He tells his secrets to Rafa. 

He naps with Rafa.

Rafa's his best friend. 

There's no jealousy between them, despite what people say. Maybe if Neymar weren't Dani's cousin there would be friction--some new guy coming in and stealing Dani's attention. But as it is, Rafa's accepted him wholeheartedly. Rafa will tell him anything and everything, and sometimes he knows what Neymar wants to ask before Neymar even opens his mouth. And Rafa will laugh if it's something stupid, but he'll still tell Neymar without making a fuss. It's the best kind of friendship because they're on the same wavelength, always looking out for each other, always sharing a smile when Dani says something ridiculous. 

Yes, Rafa is his best friend. 

But they're all his friends.

Neymar’s talked to a few of the other inmates, of course. He's wary of most of them, avoiding nearly all of the Chileans and the Portuguese. 

And the Argentines. For obvious reasons.

But he's made conversation with some of the Spaniards. Ramos invited him to play basketball once with Piqué, mainly to laugh at him, but it still had been fun for Neymar. And out of the rest of the prisoners, he's danced with James, and exchanged hellos and chit chat here and there with Alexis. But while things are civil with them, Neymar isn’t necessarily friendly with them, wouldn’t expect them to protect him from anything.

And, it’s Dani… 

Neymar wouldn’t run from Dani. 

Why would he run from Dani? 

He shouldn't need to run from Dani, right? 

Even if Dani is scaring him a lot right now. 

The thing is, Neymar would really like to know where are they going. And why he's wearing makeup. And why Dani is refusing to tell him a single detail about anything. He hates that he's still clueless, and actually, there's a little voice inside his head that says he should be able to guess their destination. But he can't. Honestly, he’s a too worried right now. 

And that’s making it very hard to think about anything other than Dani’s arm.

His cousin is humming, but it isn’t a tune that Neymar recognizes. It’s something strange, something ominous, something that Neymar doesn’t like. It’s unlike Dani’s cheerful humming, unlike how Dani normally hums when he’s eating or the way he hums when he’s usually walking down the corridor.

It's not a song you would dance to, not something you'd listen to for fun. The song sends a shiver down Neymar's spine, rumbles through his chest, vibrates throughout his entire body until Neymar almost begins to hum himself.

He wants to throw up.

Dani still doesn't speak to him.

Nobody speaks to him. 

The hallways aren't very crowded. The majority of people are resting before dinner, either in the rec room or in their own cells. Some heads turn as they walk by, but for the most part, people ignore them or step out of their way to hug the walls when they see it’s Dani coming. 

Everything seems normal.

But Neymar knows it's not.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Though the walk seems like it takes forever, in truth, they haven't actually gone far before Neymar realizes they're approaching Messi's cell. 

And that's when he knows. They're going to *Messi's cell.*

Neymar cringes, suddenly knowing without a doubt that this is where they're going. And he hates it, he doesn't want to do this, especially with the mood Dani is in. He wants to slow his steps, wants to pull away from Dani, because he's absolutely terrified of going towards there... But he can’t move away, feels Dani’s arm locked around his body. 

"Don't say a word," Dani says, as they walk closer. "I'll do the talking."

And all Neymar can do is go along with him.

Rojo is out front, leaning in the doorway. His arms are crossed, biceps bulging threateningly like he means to deter anyone from lingering around the cell. When Dani stops in front of him, clearly intent on entering, Rojo smirks. "What's the password?" he asks mockingly. He tilts his chin, drawing Neymar’s attention to the diamond tattooed on his neck for a second. "I think you and your whore had better keep walking, Alves."

Dani laughs. "That's cute. How about you move, or I'll fucking kill you," he says, grinning darkly. He starts to rock on his toes. "Don't push me today, Rojo. I'm not in a good mood." He tugs Neymar closer under his arm. "Now. Move it or lose it. I want to see him. I have a favor to cash in."

Rojo purses his lips, clearly mulling that over. His eyes dart to Neymar's and he starts to smile. "Sure thing, Alves," he says, stepping to the side. "Oi, Leo,” he calls, “Alves and his new bitch are here to see you." He blows a kiss at Neymar as they enter. 

Neymar ignores both of the insults, grinding his teeth and nervously staring straight ahead.

Messi is sitting right where Neymar saw him last night--on top of the desk. He's hunched over slightly, white t-shirt hanging off his frame, hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance. It’s a strange place to sit, makes him look small and unassuming, even though Neymar knows he’s far from it. Messi’s dark eyes are watching Dani as they walk forward, but his face is completely blank. 

Messi's not alone either, which makes Neymar grind his teeth harder as he realizes that they're outnumbered if anything goes wrong. Agüero is sitting right beside Messi on the desk, practically glued to his hip, their thighs pressed together companionably. Lavezzi and Di María are leaning against the wall, while Masche is sitting in the chair.

Six on two, then. If Neymar counts Rojo outside the cell. Which he does.

Messi flicks his eyes at Neymar, skimming them down his body almost consideringly. His face stays expressionless. Then he looks back to Dani, takes in his taut muscles, the way his arm is squeezing Neymar. 

Neymar can practically see Messi measuring them up.

Agüero starts whispering into Messi's ear, his voice too quiet for Neymar to hear. But whatever he says makes Messi's fingers uncurl from the edge of the desk. And then Messi nods, opening his mouth to speak, but before he can, Dani interrupts him.

“Let’s get right to it. I’ve waited long enough, Leo," Dani says sharply. He drops his arm from Neymar and points at Messi. “*You* owe me." His keeps his finger pointed at Messi and goes uncharacteristically still. “*You,*” he repeats slowly, “Owe. Me.” His smile grows until he’s showing all of his teeth. "Isn't that right?"

There's laughter from around them, Agüero and Lavezzi sniggering the loudest. 

Neymar, now free from Dani's clutches, tries not to shrink in on himself. 

He’s not sure this is going to end well for anyone. 

"I owe you? How high are you today, Dani?" Messi asks lazily, leaning back on his hands. The bright colors on his arm catch the light, looking wrong in the otherwise dinginess of the cell. "Fucking high as shit, apparently," he says, kicking his dangling feet in amusement. "But I guess that's nothing new, is it?" he asks the rest of the room.

Lavezzi laughs again, resting his head on Di María and looking like he's going to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Dani doesn't answer. He keeps grinning. "My boy, here, kept your secret," he says, dropping his hand. His fingers begin twitching down at his sides. "Kept his mouth shut even though Guardiola beat the shit outta him, trying to make him squeal. So the way I see it, you owe a favor. And I'm here to collect." 

Messi's silent, so Dani wiggles his eyebrows. "Only fair, you see," Dani continues, starting to get singsongy. "Only fair, only fair." His fingers start tapping against his legs and he hums the strange tune he'd been humming in the hallway.

There's more laughter from Messi’s crew, but Messi's mirth seems to lessen.

“Is that right?” Messi says thoughtfully. He looks up at the ceiling like he's thinking. “Let's say you're right," he concedes, dropping his head back down to glance at Masche. 

Masche's face doesn't change in any way that Neymar notices, but he must have sent some sign of agreement to Messi because the other man continues.

"Let's say,” Messi says graciously, “I owe you a favor.” He waves his hand in the air, bending his fingers in a gimme motion. "What is it that you want?"

Dani laughs, utterly prepared for this question, bouncing on his toes a few times. "I want the cannibal," he replies instantly, snapping his fingers.

There's a resulting growl in the corner and Neymar spins around, startled. There, in the shadows, on the lower bunk, is a man curled into a ball and wrapped in a blanket. 

Neymar doesn't know who it is. 

He can't see any more of him than some dark hair peeking above the blanket.

But he can certainly *hear* the way the man is growling. 

Next to Messi, Agüero tsks. Rojo, apparently listening to the conversation, chuckles from his place in the doorway. Lavezzi and Di María don't react other than looking surprised, but whether it’s at Dani's request or the growling from the man on the bed, Neymar isn’t sure.

Masche’s face doesn’t change.

Neither does Messi’s. 

Messi doesn’t even act like he hears the noise from the bed, although it’s so loud that there's no way he can miss it. "Why? For what?" he asks, leaning forward slightly. His eyes are intently watching Dani's face, as if he's trying to see behind Dani's sunglasses.

Dani huffs, lips curling in disgust. "Because I want him! I got a job for him," he says curtly when Messi continues to stare at him. "Need him to take care of something for me." He crosses his arms and mumbles something unintelligible under his breath before he tilts his chin up in challenge. "What do you care what I do with him?"

"I care because he's mine," Messi says sharply, sitting up straight and going very still. 

Very still.

Neymar finds that he’s holding his breath, afraid to make the slightest sound. That stillness is somehow one of the most dangerous things he’s ever seen. He wants to tug on the back of Dani’s shirt, wants to back away from the cell and run to Rafa and the others. 

But Dani just laughs, unbothered, humming that dark tune again. “I want him,” Dani says once more to Messi, even as the growling gets louder around him. “Give him to me. You can have him back. Maybe.”

Messi keeps his eyes on Dani’s face, and this time it's Messi's lips that curl into disgust.

"Alright, fine. Not maybe," Dani amends quickly, perhaps sensing that he's crossed a line. "Eventually. When I'm finished with him."

Agüero's hand slides across Messi's back and he suddenly looks knowing, eyeing Dani as if something has dawned on him. He turns his head and whispers into Messi's ear again, lips brushing the lobe, smiling as he flicks his eyes at Neymar. 

"This is the favor," Messi says quietly to Dani, after Agüero is finished talking. He doesn't smile, though he now looks less disgruntled. He looks mildly irritated or interested, or something in between, maybe appeased by whatever it is that Agüero has told him.

"Yes," Dani breathes, fingers twitching at his sides, his nerves betraying him. He wraps his hand in Neymar's shirt unconsciously, pulling him closer again.

Messi shrugs, letting out a long breath. He seems to waver, as if he's not sure the terms are worth it.

Whatever the terms are. 

Then Messi turns his piercing gaze on Neymar. 

Neymar isn't sure if he moved or made some of a noise, but Messi's now focused entirely on him. That gaze feels just as heavy as it did the first time Messi looked at him, and Neymar sways forward without meaning to.

"And this is Neymar," Messi says in a strange tone. "Your cousin, I hear." His eyes trail down Neymar's body before returning to Neymar’s face. He peers at him intently, squinting for a few seconds. "Doesn't look a thing like you."

Neymar opens his mouth to defend himself, to defend Dani, to say something--to say *anything*... But Messi stares at him curiously, almost daring him to speak, and Neymar's words dry up in his throat. All that comes out is air, before he closes his mouth with a click.

Messi looks back at Dani and shrugs again. "Hmmm," he says, like he's unconvinced. He holds his hands out in front of him, raising one up and the other down, as if he's weighing something.

Weighing something and finding them unequal.

Dani is silent for a moment, tapping on his legs, bouncing on his toes. Then he begins muttering something, clearly arguing with himself. He touches Neymar’s elbow, thumb smoothing against his skin indecisively. 

Neymar wants to lean into him, wants to say something. But he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t understand what is happening.

Then Dani lets go. 

”I get the cannibal," Dani says firmly, taking a step forward. It puts him closer to Messi, close enough that he could reach out and touch him.

Masche gets up from the chair in response, standing there as if worried Dani is going to charge them. 

Messi just looks amused once more. He exchanges a look with Agüero, the other man still with a hand on Messi's back, fingers spread out against Messi's shirt. Then he nods. "Alright, done," Messi says calmly.

They don’t shake hands, or exchange anything in writing. 

But some kind of deal has been struck.

Dani bows, letting out a huge sigh indicating that he was more worried than he let on. "Nice doing business with you," he practically slurs out in his excitement, spinning on his heel when Messi rolls his eyes. 

Dani starts to walk out. And Neymar, with a nervous look at Messi, follows. 

Or tries to follow.

Because Masche reaches out and grabs his wrist. "Not you," Masche says tonelessly. "You're staying." He pulls Neymar towards Messi.

Neymar's mouth drops open and he tries to dig his feet into the floor. “No, I—I—what?" he asks, looking at Masche and then Messi before turning to look at Dani. "What?" 

He stares back at Dani, not understanding. He has to go with Dani. Dani is his cousin, Dani is his family, Dani is his friend. They look out for each other, take care of each other. 

Neymar isn’t supposed to stay here, that doesn’t make sense at all—

But Dani, for once in his life, looks like he's somewhat sorry. "Part of the deal, Ney," he says, shaking back and forth. "It's not forever." He scratches his head when Neymar continues to look at him pitifully. "This is how favors work," he finally says, walking back over and patting Neymar's cheek.

Neymar blinks at him, not even feeling the touch. "But, Dani, it was my favor…” he whispers, trying to process what's happening. "I thought, you said…” he trails off, feeling like he's going to cry. 

He’s sure Dani said it was his favor, sure that Dani had said that…

He doesn't want to stay here.

Dani's lips twist, his eyes still hidden behind his black glasses. "You think you don't owe me? You think you would have made it on your own without me?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

Neymar tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He's not succeeding. He’s not. He’s going to cry, right here in front of Messi and Masche and the others. He’s going to cry in front of Dani. But he doesn’t think he can stop himself.

He hurts, he desperately hurts. 

Dani pats him on the cheek again. "I didn't mind helping you, Ney. You’re family. That's not the point. But your favor became my favor, okay? And I need to use it now." 

Neymar hears him talking, but nothing he is saying is making sense.

Dani smiles. "You understand how it is. Or you will. Be good, eh? I'll see you tomorrow sometime." He salutes Neymar and then turns around and strolls out of the cell, fingers drumming against his thighs.

Rojo moves out of the way without a word, staring after Dani strangely. He looks over at Neymar and then shrugs, moving back into the doorway again.

Neymar doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand what just happened.

Because—he—? 

It was his favor? 

Wasn’t it his favor? 

Why would Dani do this?

He watches Dani walk away, watches as his cousin disappears from his sight and he can’t follow. It's one of the worst things he's ever experienced, and he has absolutely no control over himself as his eyes start to blur. He doesn't even feel Masche let go of his arm.

Somebody is laughing. "You should sit down before you pass out."

Di María or Lavezzi, Neymar thinks. He doesn’t know. 

Doesn’t care.

He knows it isn't Dani. It isn't Marcelo. It isn't Rafa. 

Neymar blinks, putting a hand in front of his face as the tears start to spill over. Then things start to get fuzzy and he feels his knees get weak. He sits down in the middle of the cell, right there on the dirty floor, stifling a sob.

"I didn't mean there, boludo,” somebody says, and this time Neymar's sure it is Lavezzi. His theory is confirmed when Lavezzi is there trying to pull him up. "Oh my god, just relax. Stop crying. It's not like we're going to kill you."

Neymar wants to say that he hadn’t even thought of that, that his tears were for Dani… 

Except now he is thinking that they’re going to kill him. 

Messi will slit his throat right there on the floor…

"Leave him for now," Masche says. “It doesn’t matter.” Lavezzi stops obediently and drops him back on the floor. "Leo?” Masche asks. “Are you going to…?”

"Yes," Messi says, "of course." He clears his throat. "Luis," he calls quietly.

There's another growl from the corner, from the man wrapped up in the bed. It sounds scary, and even though he's dazed and his vision is blurred from tears, Neymar turns to watch as the man pulls the blankets down from his face.

"Awww, bad day, gordo?” Agüero asks, amused, resting his chin on Messi's shoulder. He whispers something else into Messi's ear and then laughs again.

They all watch as the man rolls out of the bed, and starts to shuffle across the floor. His movement is animal-like, body seeming wary of those in the cell, and he keeps growling as he makes his way over to Messi. It’s not quite walking, not quite crawling, but something in between.

"Don't be like that," Agüero says, as the man gets close. He hangs on Messi and leans down like he's going to smack the man's head.

The man’s growling gets louder, sounding more threatening, making Neymar’s hair start to stand on end. There's a flash of teeth and the man *snaps* at Agüero, snarling, narrowly missing the outstretched fingertips.

"Fuck off," Agüero says, yanking his hand back at the last second. The man retreats a few feet angrily, looking like he wants to return to the bed. Agüero whispers into Messi's ear, this time mutinously, but Messi shakes his head and ignores him. 

"Luis," Messi says again, dislodging Agüero's chin and then hopping off of the desk. He sits down in the chair that Masche had abandoned. He pats his leg expectantly.

Neymar watches with disbelief as the man starts to make his way back over to Messi. His body stays low to the ground and he's continuously looking side to side as he slinks over. When he's close enough, Messi reaches out as if he's going to touch him, and Neymar finds himself holding his breath.

There's another flash of teeth as the man actually opens his mouth and bites Messi. 

Well, no, he doesn't bite him. 

He more or less catches Messi's hand in his teeth, warningly. There’s a softer growling this time, as if the man is confused, not sure what he wants to do.

Messi doesn't look angry. His other hand comes up and starts to stroke through the man's hair. The man makes a noise of protest in his throat but then drops Messi's hand. "Luis," Messi coaxes, and Neymar watches incredulously as the man--Luis--rests his head on Messi's knee.

Agüero starts to laugh again. It's a loud, mocking kind of laughter that rings through the cell and hurts Neymar's ears.

Though he doesn’t run away, the noise makes Luis hide his face into Messi's leg unhappily.

"Kun," Messi says, turning his head to look at his friend. "Get out." His hand continues to stroke Luis' hair, fingers sliding through the dark strands slowly, but his eyes are fixed on Agüero's.

Agüero makes a face, but hops off the desk. "So touchy," he says, passing Neymar on the way out.

Things are a lot quieter when he's gone.

"Okay?" Messi asks Luis, when Luis has revealed his face again. The other man closes his eyes, nodding, arching up as Messi tugs on his hair a little. "Good," Messi says, eventually letting go. When Luis' eyes flutter open again, Messi smiles at him. "You'll do this for me," he says, leaning down closer. "Won't you?"

Luis nods again, sighing, inching into the space between Messi’s knees and then nosing against Messi's thigh. He still doesn’t speak, though his growling has died down completely.

Messi's smile stays. "Good. Off you go then," he says, gently pushing Luis' head away. Luis makes another quiet, curious sound in his throat. "We'll talk tomorrow. Go and rest,” Messi says in response. The other man grumbles but scrambles back into the bed, covering himself with the blanket as soon as he's settled.

Then Messi turns his gaze on Neymar.

"Come here," he says, losing his smile. His face smooths out again, and he no longer looks fond. He pats his leg again, though, like he expects Neymar to do what Luis just did.

Neymar can't move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Some things happened in this chapter... Probably not what anyone was expecting...
> 
> Tell me what you thought!! xo


	10. Like a Tart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messi’s staring at Neymar expectantly.
> 
> But he can’t move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I am changing the rating from Mature to Explicit. I am adding warnings for minor character death. I am adding tags for attempted sexual assault.
> 
> None of these things happen in these chapter, but it is likely they will in future ones.

Messi’s staring at Neymar expectantly.

But he can’t move.

“Get up,” Masche snaps from above him.

Truthfully, Masche had been so quiet during the whole thing that Neymar forgot that he was standing there. Mostly because of Messi being right there in front of him—looking at Neymar. It is quite distracting. And apparently, it has been enough to distract him from someone who is fucking scary as shit.

Neymar knows one thing for sure—he doesn’t want to give Masche any reason to be angry with him. So he takes a deep shuddering breath and climbs to his feet. He wonders if he can stall this somehow, put off going over to Messi, and then immediately dismisses that as ludicrous.

There’s no avoiding this.

There never was.

He flicks his eyes from side to side, looking at the men against the wall and then Messi and Masche. Everyone is looking at him and it’s making his skin crawl. He shakes his head and tries to focus, tries to ignore the eyes watching him. It's only a few steps to Messi, but it feels like more than a hundred. Not only that, it feels like more than a hundred steps where his feet are being dragged down, almost bolted to the floor.

He finds that it’s nearly impossible to move normally.

But they’re all waiting for him.

So he makes himself pull his feet up, makes himself move one foot after the other, makes himself shuffle across the floor. There’s a loose pebble underneath one of his shoes and he kicks it unintentionally as he tries to walk. It skitters across the floor and ends up hitting the leg of the desk.

Neymar’s heart nearly leaps into his throat, but nobody reacts.

He keeps walking.

He knows he’s moving jerkily, knows he’s showing he’s afraid. If he could, he would stand up straight and hold his head up high, fake a smile and pretend to be confident. He’d do a little twirl, pretend this is just like hanging out with Rafa. Except, he’s not hanging out with Rafa. And there’s no possible way he can pretend otherwise. He can barely hold himself up.

When he reaches Messi, Neymar tries desperately to stop shaking. He takes another deep breath and stares down at the other man, knowing that his fate rests in Messi’s hands.

Messi stares back, still unreadable, elbows on his knees as he peers up at Neymar like he’s waiting for something. His dark hair is spilling messily across his forehead, and as Neymar watches, he reaches a hand up to push it back. The bright colors of Messi’s arm tattoo catch the light again before his arm drops back to his leg and they’re hidden in the darkness.

His eyes never leave Neymar’s.

Neymar wonders if Messi can see up his nose. Then he thinks about how short Messi is, and decides that it’s probably the view the man has most of the time.

It’s a strange, sudden thought to have, and it almost makes Neymar smile—almost makes him choke on his spit. His eyes are still burning, tears ready to fall at any moment, but giddiness is starting to bubble throughout him. It’s a sort of nervous hysteria floating inside his body like it doesn’t know whether to make him laugh or cry or pass out.

And still, Messi doesn’t say anything.

Still, he waits, hunched over, dark eyes focused on Neymar’s.

"Get on your knees," Masche orders from behind Neymar, sounding exasperated as if Neymar should have figured out *that* was what Messi was waiting for. Or maybe he’s just said it more than once, and Neymar has been too out of it and didn’t even notice. “Now,” Masche clarifies when Neymar hesitates.

Neymar finds he has no other choice but to obey.

What else can he do?

He can’t run away—he’d have to get through Masche and then Lavezzi and Di María, and then Rojo if he made it that far unscathed. All of which would be impossible. And he can’t fight them—he doesn’t have anything to fight with except his fists, and he’s pretty sure that Masche is carrying some sort of weapon.

Maybe Masche is carrying more than one.

For that matter, maybe all of them are carrying weapons.

Neymar wouldn't be surprised. Sure, Messi had used Masche’s knife to kill Higuaín, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t own one too. Or that he hasn’t gotten one since then. Or that Lavezzi or one of the others isn’t carrying one.

It’s pretty likely that they’re packing.

So what else can Neymar do?

He kneels on the concrete, the hard stone beneath him making his legs ache. His thin pants offer little protection or padding to his bony knees. And there are a few pieces of grit poking into his right knee that really hurt. But he doesn’t dare complain, keeps his lips pressed together tightly so that his slight gasp of pain is kept quiet.

And he doesn’t dare touch Messi. He doesn’t dare touch that man. Messi’s motionless in the chair, still like a statue, not even blinking anymore. All Neymar can think of is how different he is from Dani… Yet how dangerous Messi looks, how his silence is the calm before the storm.

Neymar can’t believe this is his life now.

He’s trying not to panic.

But…

*Is* Messi going to kill him?

Right here?

Right now?

Are these Neymar’s last few seconds? His last few breaths?

Will Neymar see Masche's knife again one final time?

He wonders if it’s going to be as quick as it was for Higuaín, one smooth motion across the throat, or if Messi will kill him slowly. Painfully. Maybe Messi wants to see the fear in his eyes as the blade appears. Maybe this was Messi’s plan all along, to wait until Dani gave him over so that the Argentines could wrap up any loose ends.

Guardiola certainly wouldn’t have a witness anymore.

Neymar gulps, realizing it would be in Messi’s best interests to kill him. He stares down at the floor, shifting slightly on the cement as he tries to ease the ache in his knees. It draws his attention to the dirt and dust spread across the floor, and a thought occurs to him.

It would be sloppy to kill him here.

It would be hard to hide that Messi had done it, since they’re in Messi’s cell, in front of Messi’s chair. They wouldn’t be able to clean it up very well, would they? Wouldn’t be able to get the blood out of the stone floor. Wouldn’t be able to take his body out through the hallway without anyone seeing them.

So maybe they won’t kill him.

That lightens Neymar’s heart for a second and he finds it easier to breathe. But his levity only lasts for a second before his mood plummets again.

Because if they’re not going to kill him, it’s for a reason. Maybe now he’s Messi’s pet, and everyone expects him to act like Luis just did. Maybe he’s here to be Messi’s bitch—his whore—the slut that everyone implied he was for Dani.

It’s not that Neymar hasn’t seen anyone having sex since he’s been here. Not everyone in the showers goes there to get clean after all. The jokes about dropping the soap are all true. And though he’s tried to avoid watching, he’s seen an awful lot of thrusting men and jiggling body parts. And at night, as he tries to fall asleep, he hears noises from nearby cells—cries of pain and pleasure—that make him relieved he doesn’t have a roommate…

Plus, he’s walked in on Rafa and Dani going at it a few times.

But Neymar never thought he’d be in this situation.

He never thought he’d be kneeling in front of Messi. Messi—whose thighs are spread apart. Messi-who wants him to come closer.

Neymar knows what he’s supposed to do.

He’s just not sure he can do it.

But before Neymar can decide whether or not to do anything, if he should reach for Messi’s fly and pull the zip, take a deep breath and swallow him down, Messi leans in and studies his face.

Di María and Lavezzi move over from the wall to stand beside Messi, and all three of them peer at him closely. "You are a cute thing, aren't you?" Di María murmurs, staring at him. He's smiling, looking merry as though Neymar’s situation isn’t anything but funny. It makes him look slightly manic. “Pretty, and shiny, and new,” he says laughing. He reaches out like he’s going to touch Neymar’s hair.

Neymar forces himself to hold still.

Messi clears his throat. It’s the quietest thing, but it sounds incredibly loud in the otherwise silent cell.

Di María's hand drops back down to his side without complaint. He’s still smiling.

Neymar’s mind is buzzing as he looks from Messi to Di María and then back to Messi again.

"Yeah, but look," Lavezzi says then, making a face, reaching out and pointing a finger at Neymar’s eyes. He stops short of actually to touching Neymar. "Why would they...?" he asks, trailing off, before his hand drops back down too.

Finally, Messi reaches out slowly. His hand hovers in front of Neymar’s face as if Messi is trying to make it clear that he’s about to touch him.

Neymar isn’t sure, but that hesitation... it’s almost like Messi gives him a chance to pull away.

But Neymar’s too afraid to pull away.

And he can’t help the way he inhales as Messi’s fingers gently tip his chin up. The other man’s hand is soft, softer than Neymar expected—softer than it should be for someone doing hard labor in prison.

Then Messi carefully turns Neymar’s face from side to side, the pads of his fingertips lightly stroking his skin, teasing down his throat. “I thought you looked different. Why do you have this shit on your face?" he asks.

When Neymar can only stare at him, having no idea what he's talking about, Messi’s expression turns to one of annoyance.

"The makeup," Messi clarifies. "It *is* makeup, right?" he asks, as if Neymar’s an idiot.

Neymar's too scared to lie, especially when Masche pushes Lavezzi out of the way and leans in too. "Is that it? I thought he looked weird," Masche mutters. He reaches out a hand as if he’s going to move Neymar’s face to see better, but Messi turns to the side to look at him blandly and Masche ends up keeping his hand to himself.

They both stare at Neymar again.

"James did it," Neymar says, flicking his eyes between Messi and Masche, hands twisting nervously in the hem of his shirt. The fact that Messi isn’t letting anyone else touch him is making his stomach flutter.

Messi’s hand is joined by his other hand, until they're both skimming over Neymar’s skin, up and down his neck, thumbs smoothing across his cheeks.

It feels strange.

Messi’s fingers are leaving little trails of warmth all over Neymar’s face, and Neymar shivers, unsure how he feels about it.

"Why?" Masche asks, seeming extremely curious. He leans back against the desk, looking confused.

Neymar bites his lip, trying to think about the makeup instead of the way Messi's hands feel. "I don't know," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He doesn’t know, he really doesn’t, Dani wouldn’t fucking tell him, and he racks his brain for some kind of answer. He thinks Messi can probably feel his pulse racing, and he struggles to calm himself. “I’m not sure? I guess, Dani thought, that maybe you would like it?" he says haltingly, looking at Messi instead of Masche. “Like me better? For some reason?”

He's not sure what that implies.

Masche digests that for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing. He laughs and laughs and laughs, his hip resting against the desk while he holds his stomach as if he’s pained.

It’s the first time Neymar has ever seen the man look genuinely amused.

The others laugh as well, with Rojo laughing so much that he’s practically hanging on the doorway trying not to fall over. Di María is grinning so hard that Neymar thinks his teeth are going to break. “Fucking Alves,” Di María says to Lavezzi, shaking his head.

“God, Alves… He’s a fucking nutcase, ain’t he?” Masche says after a moment, turning to Leo when everyone calms down. He nudges his shoulder. "You can't make this stuff up. Actually had his cousin made up like a tart because he thinks you like 'em *pretty*. Wonder where he got that idea... Hmmm?” When Masche notices Neymar’s incredulous look, his smile disappears and he instantly becomes emotionless again.

“Fuck off,” Messi says, ignoring the room. His hands start sliding down Neymar’s neck to stroke over where Neymar’s t-shirt meets his skin. Then the hands move back up, taking their time as they map out Neymar’s flesh, cupping his cheeks, dipping along his lips… They linger there for a minute, and then Messi’s hands smooth upwards again, this time to finger Neymar’s ears, tracing the lobe and the whirls inside.

Neymar jerks his head away instinctively, finding that he’s slightly ticklish—but then Messi’s hands move up into his hair.

Neymar discovers that the panic is building inside of him again. Anxiety is starting to flood his body, fear swelling through him as his chest starts to get tight. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why Messi’s touching him like this.

The tears that are lurking behind his eyes start to blur his vision again, and he tries not to blink as he stares up at Messi. He knows if he blinks they’ll pour down his cheeks, and so he merely sniffles and tries to hold his head still. But his trembling is also increasing, and the others are sure to notice.

Messi’s finger wraps around one of his curls, pulling gently.

It doesn’t hurt.

It’s—it’s—like something a friend would do.

But that doesn’t matter, or maybe it matters too much, and Neymar closes his eyes, having lost the battle.

He can feel the tear sliding down his cheek, leaving a wet trail behind.

Messi mutters something. And then he pets Neymar’s hair, combs his fingers through gently. “Shhh,” he says, the motion slow and soothing.

None of the others say anything, not even to laugh, and when Neymar can think again, he says a small prayer of thanks that Agüero isn’t here to see this.

Neymar sniffles again, keeps his eyes closed even as another tear slides down his cheek. His eyes feel wet and sticky and messy like the makeup is starting to come off. The thought makes his breath hitch, and he wonders if maybe this will make Messi angry. He doesn’t want to make Messi angry, but he can’t calm down. And he worries that if he breaks into sobs, Messi will push him away in disgust.

But Messi doesn’t seem angry. His hands continue to pet Neymar’s hair, continue to comb through the curls slowly and carefully.

And Neymar’s convinced more than ever that he’s now Messi’s pet.

Messi’s dog.

Like Messi’s… whatever it is that Luis is…

Somehow, Neymar finds himself calming down without meaning to, the tears eventually stopping and leaving only wet lashes and tear tracks behind. It must be the way Messi’s hand is stroking through his hair because he can’t think of any other reason why—he’s still scared shitless. His body is still trembling, even if his tears have dried up.

Messi’s hands slide down the back of Neymar’s neck, rubbing softly, almost as if he’s massaging the muscles. Maybe that’s what he is doing after all because Neymar feels a tiny bit of tension disappear. Then Messi’s hands move back up, skimming Neymar’s jaw again. Neymar’s not sure how long Messi takes to explore him, but eventually, those fingers begin slowing until they gradually come to a stop under Neymar’s chin again.

Messi says something under his breath.

It’s too quiet for Neymar to hear.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Messi then says louder, expecting to be obeyed.

Neymar listens without a second thought.

The hand leaves his chin and seconds later, a finger smooths over his eyelids, the pressure increasing as it tries to wipe off the wet makeup. When the finger leaves, Neymar opens his eyes.

Messi’s thumb is hovering in front of him, damp, blackened slightly, shimmering with whatever sparkle was in the eye shadow. “I didn’t really get it,” Messi admits, staring at Neymar’s face again. He seems to be searching for something, running his eyes over Neymar’s forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

Messi pauses, focusing on Neymar’s mouth for a moment, and Neymar can’t help but lick his lips.

Messi jerks his gaze back up to Neymar’s eyes. He tilts his head over to the sink attached to the wall. “Wash your face,” he says curtly.

Embarrassed, Neymar gets up and shakily dunks his face under the faucet, scrubbing with his sleeve for a bit. The fabric turns slightly gray. When he thinks he’s got it all, he turns back towards Messi and the others. He can feel water dripping down his face and soaking his shirt, making it translucent as it sticks to his stomach, but he doesn’t have anything to use as a towel so he lets it happen.

Lavezzi laughs, trailing his eyes down Neymar’s body. “Better,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t you think, Leo?” he asks, leaning back against the desk. “Of course, he could lose the shirt, if you ask me.”

Messi looks at Neymar for a long moment, this time keeping his eyes only on Neymar’s. A strange expression crosses his face.

Neymar has no idea what he's thinking.

Messi rubs his fingers together, his black thumb sliding against the pads of his other fingers, spreading the makeup around until all of the tips of his fingers are somewhat sparkly. He considers them for a minute and then turns to Lavezzi. "Good thing nobody asked you," he says seriously, raising his eyebrows. He doesn't give Lavezzi a chance to reply, waving a hand and apparently finished with all of them. He turns to the desk and starts rifling through a drawer.

Neymar stands there in confusion, dripping water onto the floor, some of his sadness forgotten as Lavezzi pouts and Rojo and Di María start sniggering.

He doesn’t know what to do, or what Messi wants him to do.

It’s Masche who directs him. “Enough,” he says shortly to the rest of Messi’s crew. To Neymar, he says, “Sit.” He points to the window sill. “There. Not on the floor,” he adds pointedly. His eyes stare at Neymar until he obeys and Neymar has slid up onto his assigned perch.

After that, Lavezzi and Di Maria saunter out. Neymar guesses that it’s so they can go rest before dinner. Messi doesn’t look up, apparently focused on something else. After a nod from Masche, Rojo exits too, but Neymar has a feeling that he's not going very far away. He's probably just looming outside the door like he was when they had arrived. Masche stays where he is, but Neymar's finally figured out that it’s actually Masche’s cell, too, and there’s no reason for him to leave.

Luis, over on the bed, doesn’t move, and neither Messi nor Masche try to make him. It's odd, and Neymar can't quite figure it all out. The other man is quiet now, his growling long since ended. But he's still wrapped up in a blanket and curled in a ball.

Neymar thinks that he's asleep.

He wonders if Messi will eventually make Luis go back to his own cell. It probably has to happen--the guards do a check at lights out to make sure everyone is where they're supposed to be, and unless Messi has some pull that Neymar doesn't know about, Luis is expected back in his cell.

Neymar doesn’t move either, staying up on the window sill even though he's starting to shiver because of his wet clothing. His butt is starting to go numb, too. Surely the bunk would be more comfortable, but Luis is still over there on the bottom. And Neymar wouldn’t move without permission anyway. So all he can do is stay where he is. He keeps staring at Messi, finding himself unable to look away.

Messi must feel his gaze, but he doesn’t look over. He ignores Neymar completely.

Neymar’s not sure how he feels about that.

Being ignored.

He should be used to it, especially since it seems like forever since someone actually explained to him what was going on.

Messi seems oblivious to Neymar’s confusion and works at his desk instead. He pages through papers, jots down an occasional thought. Every once in awhile he says something to Masche, something short that doesn't make any sense to Neymar in the grand scheme of things.

Times.

One week, three weeks, two years...

Random places.

Barcelona, Madrid, Rio, Santiago, Moscow…

Names.

Most of the names at least, Messi says quickly and quietly. He practically mumbles them, making them hard for Neymar to catch. Neymar knows for sure that one is Guardiola. He thinks that another is Simon? Or Simeone? He can’t tell about a lot of the others. He wonders if Messi speaks that way on purpose, or if it’s his accent, that soft drawl, that makes him hard to understand.

Masche often nods in return, leaning against the desk as he waits for Messi to speak again. But in general, Masche doesn’t talk much, perhaps wary of Neymar’s presence—unlike Messi.

Neymar’s learning that Messi talks when he feels like, whereas Masche is more of the strong, silent type.

Strong, silent, and fucking scary as shit type.

When Masche does speak, it’s to mention names that Neymar recognizes as those of some of the guards in their prison.

Neymar’s absolutely positive that he hears those correctly—especially Zidane, Martino, and Enrique, but he still can't really understand what they have to do about anything. So he just sits there, watching and listening, glumly wondering what they’re talking about.

It’s some sort of timeline, some sort of plan for something. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything.

And worst of all, he doesn’t know what Messi going to expect from him.

Because the truth is, he's clueless.

He understands now that he’s been clueless ever since his first day. Just when he thought he was starting to get used to things, starting to understand the routine of his new life—the work he had to do, the people to avoid, the people who were his friends—everything changed.

It’s like he’s starting over now.

And it’s scary, because he knows now that nothing is permanent.

He has to wonder…

A few minutes later, Ronaldo comes in. "I only have a minute," he says to Messi before he sees Neymar at the window. "What the hell is this?" He looks irritated, little creases forming in his forehead. He strides into the center of the room, the scent of smoke clinging to him like always.

Messi smiles strangely but doesn't seem surprised, putting his things into the drawer of his desk and then shutting it. He hops back up on top of it and into his usual position. "Alves made a trade," he explains, feet dangling.

Ronaldo raises an eyebrow. "Fucking Alves," he mutters. "And now?"

Messi just looks at him serenely. "And now Neymar is going to be spending some time here." He doesn't offer anything more, and Neymar half wishes he would.

Ronaldo crosses his arms, making himself look bigger. "As I said," he announces dismissively, "I only have a minute."

Messi laughs softly and Neymar looks over in wonder.

But Messi only looks over at Masche. "Give us a 'minute', please," he says. Masche scoffs, but gets up and walks out. He goes and stands in the doorway with his back to the cell.

Ronaldo looks over towards where Luis is covered with blankets in the bed. He shakes his head in disgust. ”I can deal with this one,” he says, still sounding annoyed. “But him?" Ronaldo asks, tilting his head at Neymar. "What, are you collecting outcasts now?"

Messi smiles again. "He's fine. You don’t have to worry about him. He’s smart. Knows when to keep his mouth shut. Don't you, Neymar?" He doesn't look at Neymar, keeps his gazed fixed on Ronaldo.

"Yes," Neymar says apprehensively, sensing that Messi wants a confirmation. "I'm--I'm--," he says, stuttering a little, and making himself take a deep breath. "I won't say anything," he promises, cringing as Ronaldo glares at him. He has no idea what it is he's promising, but he'd rather avoid Ronaldo killing him.

Messi kicks his feet, as if to say 'See?'

Ronaldo throws his hands up and says something under his breath. It sounds like, "Always too trusting," but Neymar can't be sure. And then Ronaldo walks toward Messi so angrily that Neymar thinks they're about to fight.

Except they don't do anything of the sort.

Because Ronaldo lunges toward Messi, threads his hands into Messi's hair and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked...!


	11. Just a Bit of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar's sure he’s hallucinating now. Because the look on Ronaldo’s face is the strangest thing he’s ever seen. Neymar tries to make sense of it all, tries to think if he’d missed signs that the two of them were involved.
> 
> But it never once occurred to him.
> 
> Not with the way Ronaldo had been around James.
> 
> But Messi and Ronaldo? Dani had said something before, about the two of them. Had it been at lunch? Or out in the yard? “They knew each other," Dani's voice suddenly repeats in his head. Rafa had laughed, had said Dani was just messing with them…
> 
> But Dani must have been telling the truth.

Neymar chokes on his spit. When he recovers, he can only blink and wonder if he's hallucinating. Because he can’t possibly be seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Because Neymar could swear that he’s watching Ronaldo kiss Messi.

And that cannot possibly be right. 

Can it?

Except it is.

And it’s not just kissing. It’s full on making-out.

Ronaldo kisses Messi like he's devouring him. Like it’s the first time—or the first time after a long time. It’s hot and wet and all lips and teeth and tongue. He’s pressing against Messi’s body and groaning, the sound filling the cell and probably spilling out into the hallway. And his hands are everywhere, moving from Messi's hair to his neck to his waist, gripping one of his thick thighs before sliding to his ass. 

Messi doesn't push him away or struggle, or give any sign that he doesn’t want it. Instead, his hands grab at Ronaldo’s shirt. He pulls him closer while he makes a delighted sound. He’s entirely reciprocal, especially as Ronaldo’s hands palm his ass, squeezing and rolling before lifting him off the desk effortlessly.

Messi only wraps his arms around Ronaldo’s neck, not even breaking the kiss as his legs squeeze around Ronaldo’s hips, and it all of a sudden becomes clear that they’ve done this a thousand times.

Neymar continues to watch open-mouthed, suddenly wondering if they’re going to fuck right there in front of him, and how the hell he’s supposed to sit there and watch as they do so.

But after a minute Ronaldo ends the kiss, catching Messi's bottom lip for a moment with his teeth. They're both breathing heavily, eyes lidded, staring at each other. 

Messi's panting, lips bruised. His legs are still around Ronaldo’s waist, fingers still clutching Ronaldo’s neck like he doesn’t want the kisses to end. And in fact, he tries to tug the other man back down. Tries to continue the make-out session.

Ronaldo lets his lips hover over over Messi's like he’s going to give in, and then he breaks out into a grin instead. 

Neymar's sure he’s hallucinating now. Because the look on Ronaldo’s face is the strangest thing he’s ever seen. Neymar tries to make sense of it all, tries to think if he’d missed signs that the two of them were involved. 

But it never once occurred to him. 

Not with the way Ronaldo had been around James.

But Messi and Ronaldo? Dani had said something before, about the two of them. Had it been at lunch? Or out in the yard? “They knew each other," Dani's voice suddenly repeats in his head. Rafa had laughed, had said Dani was just messing with them…

But Dani must have been telling the truth.

"Your minute is up," Masche says, cutting through the cell, still facing away.

"Yeah, yeah," Ronaldo says loudly. His hands are still on Messi’s ass, fingers digging into the fabric like he wishes it were skin. He slowly leans down and carefully sets Messi back down on the desk, his hands reluctantly moving to peel Messi’s from his neck. 

Messi hesitates but releases him, hands falling to grip the edge of the desk.

Ronaldo continues to stand between Messi's spread legs, perhaps making it clear that he’s in no hurry to let Masche come back in. He doesn't look away from Messi, stroking a finger across Messi's cheek like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Same time tomorrow?" he murmurs, licking his lips.

Neymar mouths, “Tomorrow?” He’s remembering now how he’d seen Ronaldo in Messi’s cell the night before. But he’s still confused as fuck about how this could be a regular occurrence. 

Did Ronaldo really come to Messi’s cell every single night? 

Just to make out?

Messi looks up at Ronaldo through his lashes, his chest no longer heaving as he starts to catch his breath. "Maybe," he demurs. "If I'm not busy," he adds. He raises his eyebrows and leans back, pulling his face away from Ronaldo's touch as if he's entirely unaffected. "You know how it is."

His lips are slightly swollen. 

And the skin around his mouth is reddened from Ronaldo’s stubble.

Ronaldo laughs. "Oh, I do," he says, dropping his hand and taking a step back. 

Then he smiles at Messi, and somehow it’s even stranger than the grin he was just sporting a few seconds ago. 

This is a smile that Neymar has *never* seen before. 

It’s *not* like the smile Ronaldo had given James. That look had been one of fondness, sincerity, and perhaps lust. But that smile… it was nothing like this. 

This is different… softer? 

Neymar’s not even sure he can describe it properly. It looks somehow both softer and stronger at the same time. A smile that speaks of intimacy, of knowing someone from the inside out. 

And it looks so wrong on Ronaldo’s face. 

So very wrong to be directed at Messi.

In any case, Neymar doesn’t have much time to contemplate it. Ronaldo loses the smile as soon as he looks away from Messi and catches Neymar watching. "What are you looking at?" he asks roughly. Whatever softness he had displayed is covered up immediately as his normal mask returns. He takes a threatening step in Neymar's direction.

"Nothing," Neymar coughs out, instantly afraid again, trying to shift closer to the window as if that’s going to protect him.

"That's what I thought,” Ronaldo says quietly. He stares at Neymar for a moment, the glare in his eyes intensifying. When he seems satisfied with Neymar’s fear, he nods. His eyes catch Messi’s again, but his smile does not reappear. Then, without a word or a goodbye, he turns and walks out, careful not to touch Masche as they pass each other.

"Really, Leo," Masche murmurs, sitting back in the chair, shaking his head. He crosses his arms in disapproval.

Messi shrugs, looking unapologetic. "Just a bit of fun, Masche, no need to fret." He turns his head and his eyes find Neymar's. "After all, what's life without a little fun?" His fingers trail over his lips, pressing down as if to try to feel the kiss again.

Neymar doesn't know if he's supposed to reply, so he stays silent. His eyes follow Messi’s fingers as they slide across his mouth. He thinks he catches a flicker of tongue right before Messi drops his hand back to the desk and looks away.

The two men resume their conversation, so Neymar stays where he is up on his perch. He tries to look outside the window, but he can’t see anything in the darkness except the bars on the other side of the glass. 

Still, he stays looking in that direction, worried what will happen if he catches Messi’s eyes. 

Neymar only gets down to follow Messi to dinner when Masche says his name and crooks a finger at him to come. He wants to ask if Luis eats, but the man stays wrapped up in the blankets and neither Messi nor Masche speaks to him, so Neymar keeps quiet. He stays quiet as Rojo appears out of nowhere and falls into step beside him. And despite his fear, Neymar sits meekly when Lavezzi points at a spot at their table, next to Agüero. 

He chances a look at his old table, hoping that they’re at least missing him. But even though he stares at them for a few minutes, silently pleading, nobody ever looks back at him. Rafa has his head down on the table, hiding it in his arms. Dani’s hand is rubbing the back of his neck. The others are focused on their food.

Neymar doesn’t look again.

He sits and eats when a tray is put in front of him, not even tasting any of his food. He just keeps choking it down as fast as he can so that he can go back to his cell and try to forget.

They walk in a group out of the cafeteria, Messi in the middle, surrounded by his entourage. People part for them instantly, and Neymar’s reminded of the way people used to get out of the way for Dani. Neymar stays behind Rojo, not knowing where else to walk. When they reach Messi’s cell, Messi goes inside, but Masche points in the direction of Neymar’s cell.

Neymar hesitates, and then he kicks himself for even wanting to ask anything that could get him yanked inside towards Messi. He quickly walks down the hallway, noticing that Rojo is only a few feet behind him, trailing him the whole way. 

“Someone will come get you in the morning,” Rojo throws over his shoulder once Neymar’s in his own cell. “Don’t be stupid and leave before that.”

Neymar doesn’t answer. He falls into bed, pulls the covers over his eyes, and then he cries. He falls asleep crying, feeling even worse than he did on his first day, wishing desperately that he were anywhere but here.

*****

 

When he wakes up, there’s a man standing next to his bed.

Though, he looks *so* different that Neymar doesn't know who he is at first.

"We haven't actually been introduced," Luis says, smiling brilliantly, and Neymar finally recognizes the toothy grin he saw his first day in the cafeteria--and the teeth that almost bit off Agüero's fingers. "I'm Luis," the man says, squatting down and putting out a hand for Neymar to shake.

Neymar takes it timidly. "Um," he says, trying to reconcile this man with the man he saw growling and crawling on the floor yesterday. "Nice to meet you." He sits up and bites his lip, wondering if he should ask. Eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him. "You look... different, today," he finally says, hoping that it's tactful enough.

Luis' smile doesn't change. It’s still brilliant and showing as many teeth as possible. "Oh," he says, nodding. "Yes, I remember a little of yesterday. It was not a good day for me," he admits. He cocks his head to the side. "I have bad moments and good moments,” he explains, eyes flicking around Neymar's cell for a moment. “Maybe more bad than good. Sometimes my bad moments become bad days… And, well, my bad days are a little worse than most people's."

Neymar nods, trying to be polite, though that explanation didn’t really tell him anything at all.

"I hope," Luis says, standing up and looking down at Neymar, "that we will still get along. And maybe be friends." His words are rushed, smile fading when Neymar doesn't answer right away. "Not everyone understands,” he says, fingers fumbling in the hem of his shirt like he’s tired of disappointment.

Neymar, who at the moment is severely lacking in friends, doesn't have the heart to say that he also doesn't understand. He takes a deep breath. "I'll be your friend," he says, smiling when Luis' grin reappears.

"Thank you, Neymar," Luis says, scuffing his feet on the floor, seeming a little embarrassed but also pleased at the same time. He lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

And it truly seems heartfelt—like Neymar agreeing to be his friend has made him so much happier.

"Ney," Neymar corrects impulsively, for some reason wanting Luis to feel better. "Please, call me Ney." He shrugs when Luis looks at him again. "If we're friends," he says, standing up and stretching. He feels happier all of a sudden, thinking that maybe he has someone on his side.

Luis' smile grows wider. "Thank you, Ney," he repeats. He ducks his head and then takes a deep breath. "Well," he says scratching his head. "Leo sent me to fetch you for breakfast."

Neymar feels his smile disappear.

Because Leo is Messi.

And Neymar is still desperately afraid of Messi.

Luis notices. "Oh," he says, reaching out like he's going to touch Neymar. He stops at the last second and pulls his hand back.

Neymar’s not sure if it’s just because he’s polite, or if it’s because of the way Messi had been with people touching Neymar the night before. 

Either way, it’s super awkward.

"Ney," Luis says, "I know you must be nervous, but you don't need to be, okay?"

Neymar doesn’t believe him, but he tries to smile and look convinced.

Luis scratches his head again. "Leo is..." he starts, trailing off as if he doesn't know what to say. "Well, don't get on his bad side, obviously," he says seriously. "But--he protects what is his, you know? He's not going to do anything to you, not going to let anything happen to you." He shrugs helplessly. "I can't tell you what he's done for me, but I'll never be able to thank him enough."

Neymar thinks of Luis on his knees and wonders what inspires that kind of devotion.

Luis clears his throat. "And I know our situations are different, because—well because of several things,and maybe it sounds stupid to come out and say it, but... You belong to him now," he says bluntly. "He'll take care of you."

Neymar just nods, desperately wanting this conversation to be over. "Thank you, Luis," he says, appreciating that Luis is trying, even though this pretty much just confirms that he's probably Messi's new bitch.

"Breakfast?" Luis asks, taking a step towards the door. There’s a slight bounce in his step. "It's better when it's hot!" he says jokingly.

All it does is make Neymar think of the way Rafa had once told him the very same thing. 

But Neymar follows Luis anyway. He follows him through the crowded hallway, keeping his eyes on Luis' back and refusing to look side to side for Rafa or Marcelo or Dani. He wants to, wants to see a friendly face, wants Adriano or Douglas to smile and wave at him like usual. Even seeing Lucas or Casemiro would make the knot in his chest loosen. 

But Neymar doesn't look for them. Because if they didn’t smile and wave at him last night, then they aren’t going to smile and wave today.

He follows Luis into the cafeteria, forcing himself to walk to Messi's table as opposed to his normal one. He knows that people around them are staring and talking about him. It’s as if they’re suddenly noticing that for the second meal in a row, he’s at Messi’s table. It’s causing a bit of commotion, if the noise level is anything to go by, with some of the inmates laughing viciously. A few others are frowning and trading cigarettes or other contraband like they’d been betting on Neymar’s fate. 

Messi's at his table already, hands folded in front of his mouth, calmly watching them approach. He seems oblivious to everything around them, his eyes moving from Neymar to Luis and then back to Neymar like he hasn’t decided where to look. Masche is at his side, with his ever-present frown. Agüero joins them a minute later, with Lavezzi and Di María carrying trays behind them. 

They don’t have enough for Luis or Neymar. “Come on,” Luis says, not seeming bothered, pulling Neymar to the line to get food. 

Neymar’s on autopilot as he stands in line to receive his tray. He doesn’t even realize that Rafa has appeared in front of him.

“Are you alright, Ney?” Rafa whispers, hugging him. 

Neymar barely feels it, barely feels Rafa’s arms squeeze him. It should feel good. Should feel warm and familiar. But Neymar doesn’t feel anything. It’s only for a moment anyway, as Luis pulls on his shirt. 

“Ney,” Luis says, urgently, thrusting a tray into his hands, “come away, Ney.”

So Neymar ignores Rafa and lets himself be pulled back to his table. 

“What did he want?” Masche asks as Luis pushes Neymar down into a seat. The action knocks the silverware off Neymar’s tray, but Neymar doesn’t react as it clatters against the table.

Luis answers. “He was just saying hello,” he says. He reaches over and fixes Neymar’s silverware, putting the spoon into Neymar’s hand. Then he pushes the bowl of oatmeal closer to Neymar’s face. “Ney?”

“Why?” Agüero asks, looking incredulous. 

Neymar looks down at his spoon and then at his bowl. He has a feeling that Luis is about to answer for him again, and he’s very grateful that his new friend is trying to take care of him—but there’s something about Agüero that rubs him the wrong way. “Rafa is my friend,” he says, speaking to his spoon as much as to the table. He doesn’t look up and instead takes a bite of his food, forcing himself to swallow.

Lavezzi starts to laugh, fist pounding the table as Agüero stares at him in disbelief. “You’re better off without him,” Lavezzi says, once he’s caught his breath. He’s smiling wickedly when Neymar looks up in shock. “After all,” Lavezzi continues, taking a swig of his juice. “It’s because of him that Alves got rid of you.”

Neymar shakes his head. “What?” he says, feeling his ears start to ring. “What? Why? I’m not—I don’t understand… He’s my friend? I said, he said, that we were friends…”

Messi makes some motion with his hand that Neymar sees out of the corner of his eye, and Lavezzi stops laughing.

“Go wait in the yard,” Masche says, placing his silverware neatly on his tray. Neymar’s ears are still ringing, and he turns to look at Masche to see if this instruction is directed towards him. But Masche’s gaze is fixed on Lavezzi and the other man scrambles to obey.

Messi stands then, apparently finished, having eaten very little of what was served to him. He leaves his tray on the table and looks out across the room, slowly smoothing a hand down his shirt as if in thought. “Luis,” he calls softly.

Luis drops his spoon into his bowl. He’s instantly up and out of his seat, darting around the table to go to Messi’s side. 

Messi doesn’t look at him, still surveying the room, looking over at a group in the corner. But he strokes a hand through Luis’ hair and then cups his head, pulling him closer so he can say something quietly into his ear. 

Luis bows down obediently, closing his eyes and listening to whatever Messi has to say.

Neymar can only watch, still trying to process what he just heard. “But Rafa?” Neymar says, looking down at his oatmeal and feeling like he’s going to throw up. His stomach starts churning and twisting, and he drops his spoon down into his bowl, unable to eat another bite.

Agüero is eyeing him curiously. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. How fucking stupid are you?” he asks, taking a sip of his juice. “Jesus, fuck, I can already tell you’re going to be a huge pain in the ass.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks disgusted.

Di María says something then, and Masche answers. 

Neymar hears them but doesn’t hear them, still trying to focus on what Lavezzi said. 

And then Luis is back by his side. “Oh, you’re full already?” he asks, seeming concerned. His hand touches Neymar’s back lightly and then he starts to stack up the trays. “We’ll have to make sure you eat something at lunch. It’s important to eat, you know, Ney? Make sure to have some extra greens later.” He starts to ramble on about nutrition and how important it is to try to stay healthy, even though the kitchens don’t give them many healthy foods. 

Neymar isn’t listening. 

He stares down at the table, feeling numb. He wants to look over at the Brazilians' table. But now he’s afraid of what he’ll see. Could it be that Rafa didn’t want him around anymore? Could it be that he thought Neymar was stealing Dani’s attention from him? That’s the last thing that Neymar would ever want to do, and he’s heartbroken that his friend would go to such lengths to get rid of him.

But Rafa had hugged him...

And then Luis is tugging his elbow and pulling him up out of his seat. “Come on, Ney,” he says, helping Neymar stand up and steadying him when he sways. He apparently had taken the trays from the table and returned them while Neymar was zoning out.

Neymar’s barely aware of everyone moving around them, the cafeteria emptying, their meals finished. But he starts to follow the crowd, starts to go towards the hallway so that he can go out to the yard like usual. 

But Luis grabs his arm.

“No,” Luis says, pulling him in a different direction. “Leo doesn’t want you to go outside today,” he explains, speaking a little louder over the noise of the inmates talking.

“What?” Neymar asks dumbly, following Luis but watching the stream of people moves in the opposite direction towards the yard.

“He wants you to rest instead,” Luis says, linking his arm with Neymar’s and walking back towards the cells. “He knows that you probably didn’t sleep much last night.”

Neymar should wonder about that, about what Messi’s thinking about him and what it means, but he's distracted.

He looks down at their linked arms. “You’re—you’re touching me,” he murmurs, wondering if that’s allowed. “You touched me before,” he continues, thinking about the way Luis had pulled him about Rafa, and the hand that had been on his back.

Luis stops walking and Neymar stops too.

“Should I not touch you?” Luis asks, dropping his arm from Neymar’s. He looks upset. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

Neymar feels cold now that Luis has taken a step away. “No,” he says, still trying to understand. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, looking down at his arm. “You can touch me. But the others?”

Luis comes closer again. After a bit of hesitation, he links their arms and they start walking once more. “Are you…? Do you mean…?” He shakes his head. “Listen, no one is allowed to touch you in a way that bothers you,” he says curtly. “Nobody will. But if for some reason they’re fucking stupid, and they do? You tell Leo, and he’ll take care of it.”

Neymar tries to wrap his head around that. “But you can touch me, though,” he repeats. “It’s allowed?” 

Luis lets out a laugh. “Was that a rule with Alves or something?” He bumps his hip into Neymar. 

Neymar looks at the floor, steps over a crack in the concrete as they continue on toward the cells. “It’s just last night,” he says, remembering. “Di María. He—he—put his hand out like he was reaching for me. And Messi stopped him.” His voice trembles. “And then Masche was going to touch me, and Messi stopped him too.”

Luis pats his hand. “And so you thought that nobody except Leo was allowed to touch you,” he concludes.

Neymar nods.

“Because you belong to him,” Luis says, guessing what’s going through Neymar’s mind.

Neymar nods again.

Luis is quiet for a moment. “Well, you are his,” he says quietly. “Like me.” They reach the corner and turn to go down towards Messi’s cell. “So nobody had better think about laying a finger on you. But Ney… With Leo, if you don’t want—if you don’t like—“ he breaks off and clucks his tongue as if he’s trying to figure out what to say. “Listen,” he says, abruptly coming to a stop.

Neymar blinks at him, still half dazed from everything that has happened.

Luis turns to face him and puts his hands on Neymar’s shoulders. “Leo isn’t like that, okay?” He searches Neymar’s face. “Yes, he’s fucking scary as shit most of the time. But he’s not going to rape you, okay?”

The words sound terribly vulgar coming out of Luis’ mouth and Neymar shivers.

Luis looks up at him again and half smiles. “He's done a lot of fucked up shit, but he's never forced himself on anyone.” He tilts his head to the side and his smile slowly disappears. “Do you believe me?”

Neymar opens his mouth to say that he does. But then he closes it, his teeth clicking together jarringly. 

Because he’s too afraid.

And he’s tired of feeling afraid, but there isn’t anything he can do about it. 

He’s so tired in general.

And at this point, he doesn’t even remember a time where he wasn’t afraid.

Luis nods. “You’re not sure yet,” he says, dropping his hands from Neymar’s shoulders. “That’s fair. You should be careful who you trust in here.” 

Neymar wants to cry. He closes his eyes, knowing that he’s now lost Luis as a friend.

But then he feels Luis link arms with him again, and his eyes snap open.

“For the record,” Luis says, as they start walking again, “you can trust me, Ney.” His voice is soft after that. "You can ask me anything and I promise I'll tell you the truth."

And while Neymar’s trying to get rid of the lump in his throat at hearing that, things suddenly take a turn for the worse. 

Because Guardiola and Enrique are in front of them, blocking their path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked?? More soon??


	12. He's Not Even a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar can’t breathe, finds he’s frozen in place. He’s heard every word Guardiola’s said, heard what terrible things Luis has done—the terrible things Luis *could* do… but even more than that, he can hear Luis’ pained moans in the background and suddenly nothing matters except that his friend is hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

The guards are smiling nastily, and Neymar swallows hard as Luis takes a step in front of him protectively.

“We’re not feeling well, today,” Luis says instantly, now blocking most of Neymar from view. “Just going to rest so that we’re able to work later. Didn’t want to waste the doctor’s time.” His tone implies that it’s not a big deal, and there’s nothing to worry about. But he reaches one hand back behind him as if to tell Neymar not to move.

Guardiola’s smile turns into a sneer. “I didn’t ask you, did I?” he hisses, looking Luis up and down. He jerks his head to the side and Enrique reaches out to yank Luis toward them.

“Hey!” Neymar shouts as they throw Luis onto the ground. Luis struggles slightly, trying to keep his head up and eyes on the guards, but eventually lets himself be pushed down. “What are you doing?!” Neymar’s not sure what gets into him, but he takes a step towards Luis, reaching for his friend. “We weren’t doing anything! You can’t do that!”

Enrique points his nightstick at Neymar threateningly. “Don’t take another step,” he warns. And when Neymar straightens up warily, remembering the beating he received on his first night in prison, Enrique swings the baton down into Luis’ stomach. “Be quiet or you’re next,” he says to Neymar as Luis grunts at the impact.

Guardiola laughs, seeming unbothered by what’s happening. “So this is what it’s come to,” he says taking a step over Luis’ legs so that he can get closer to Neymar.

Neymar backs away. “Please,” he says, wondering if he should beg. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, but he’s desperately worried that things are about to get worse. He thinks of all the times Guardiola had tried to corner him before, but been unable to with Marcelo or Dani beside him…

“Alves got rid of you as soon as it was convenient,” Guardiola says, perhaps sensing that Neymar’s thinking about Dani. “Traded you for a pack of smokes like you were nothing. And now look at you.” He trails his eyes down Neymar’s body and smirks. “Messi’s bitch.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ney,” Luis says, trying to catch Neymar’s gaze. He struggles in Enrique’s grip again. “He’s just trying to mess with you!”

Enrique curses and hits Luis again. This time the blow is across the face and it stuns the other man.

“Stop!” Neymar says, looking around Guardiola, alarmed as Luis’ lip splits open and blood begins to drip down his chin. “Leave him alone!”

“Why?” Guardiola asks, moving his head to and blocking Neymar’s view again. “If we kill him, it’ll really only help you, you know. You’ll move up in the pecking order. Though how you’re still behind this piece of shit, I have no fucking idea.” A strange look crosses his face. He turns around and spits on Luis, grinning as his saliva lands in the other man’s hair. Then he starts kicking him the stomach.

Luis groans and curls into a ball, trying to shield his head as Guardiola kicks his body a few more times.

“Should have put you down ages ago,” Guardiola says as Luis starts to growl. “You’re a fucking disgrace. An animal! Disgusting!” He turns back to Neymar and laughs again as if he’s trying to catch his breath. He straights his shirt, pulling on his cuffs, and then hooks his thumbs in his belt. “You agree, of course?” he asks conversationally.

Neymar clears his throat, absolutely not agreeing but terrified to answer. He takes another step back as Guardiola leaves Luis again and walks towards him once more.

“He’s not like you and me,” Guardiola hisses. “He’s not even a man! He killed five men. He’s a murderer. And not only that, he ripped their bodies apart with his teeth.” Guardiola clicks his teeth together as if he’s biting something. “Imagine that, Neymar,” Guardiola whispers. “Ripped them apart with his teeth,” he repeats.

Neymar winces.

“And then he fucking *ate* them,” Guardiola continues, getting closer and closer to Neymar until Neymar can feel his breath. He clicks his teeth together a few more times, snapping close to Neymar’s face. “That’s why they call him the cannibal. And now Messi's got you hanging with him? Shows how little he thinks of you. I heard he's all ready to trade you off to the Chileans for something. That's what he does, you see, uses people for himself. And if he decides you aren't worth it--he'll kill you. Hell, maybe he’ll even have the cannibal do it. Maybe that’s how we’ll find you—with chunks bitten out of your throat.”

Neymar can’t breathe, finds he’s frozen in place. He’s heard every word Guardiola’s said, heard what terrible things Luis has done—the terrible things Luis *could* do… but even more than that, he can hear Luis’ pained moans in the background and suddenly nothing matters except that his friend is hurt.

“Oh, Neymar,” Guardiola coos, his tone turning sweet. The guard’s face smooths out, the corners of his lips turning up in the fakest smile that Neymar has ever seen. “I can protect you, you know. Private cell, good food, visits from family,” Guardiola whispers. “Or, I can transfer you out to a white collar prison. You’ll never have to see any of these miscreants ever again. Won’t even have to see *me* again! You can serve out your sentence without having to worry about a single thing…” He laughs, turning to look back at Luis. “Won’t have to worry about being murdered in your sleep by this filthy animal.”

Enrique hits Luis again when Luis tries to protest. The smack is loud, the end of the nightstick slapping against Luis’ temple.

“All you have to do is tell me what happened to Higuaín,” Guardiola says, spinning to face Neymar.

He reaches out and pats Neymar on the cheek. His hands are cold, and it should feel good against Neymar’s hot skin—but all it does is send a shiver up Neymar’s spine.

“After all, I know what really happened,” Guardiola confides. “I know he slit Higuaín’s throat. He’s done it before--killed an inmate for no reason at all--and he’ll do it again. Does it himself, or sends one of his dogs to do it for him. Everybody knows. So it isn’t a secret. You wouldn’t be telling me anything we don’t already know. All you have to do is tell me exactly what you saw so that Messi can be punished for it… So simple. So easy,” he cajoles. “So very, very easy.”

Neymar flicks his eyes to where Luis is on the floor.

“Just tell me,” Guardiola presses. “Tell me Messi had a weapon. Tell me Messi killed Higuaín. You do that, and,” he shrugs. “I can fix everything for you.”

Neymar stares at him, knowing it’s a lie but also so incredibly tempted.

On the floor, Luis chokes out, “No, Ney—,” before Enrique clubs him in the stomach, hard. Luis growls, trying to curl up on himself again. His growls start to get louder as Enrique brandishes the nightstick threateningly.

“Don’t look at him, Neymar,” Guardiola says suddenly, voice becoming firmer. “Look at me and tell me what happened.”

Neymar forces himself to look Guardiola in the eyes. “I saw nothing,” he says quietly, repeating the same thing he’s always told Guardiola. “I saw nothing.” He bites his tongue, keeps his truth inside where it’s safe. He chose a side on his first day—and it’s not Guardiola’s. When Guardiola doesn’t move, Neymar whispers it one final time. “I saw nothing.” And then, he more or less sees the rage start to cloud Guardiola’s vision, and cringes away knowing that there’s going to be some sort of punishment.

As it is, it turns out Neymar is right.

There is punishment.

But not for him.

Guardiola backs away from him furiously, fists clenched at his sides. “You fucking idiot,” he says, shaking with rage. “You could have had it all!” He turns and begins kicking Luis over and over again, his steel-toed boots thudding into Luis’ side. He ignores Neymar’s pleas for him to stop. “You! Stupid! Fucking! Idiot!” Guardiola screams, kicking Luis over and over until he nearly falls onto the floor next to him.

Luis’ growls slowly turn into whimpers, the other man so badly hurt that he can’t even protect himself anymore.

Eventually, Guardiola tires. “You’ll be sorry,” he pants in Neymar’s direction, straightening up. He fixes his cuffs again, pushing his belt down on his waist from where it's ridden up with all the commotion. “Should have known you were trash, just like the rest of them.” He spits on the floor in front of Neymar and then storms off with Enrique trailing behind.

They leave Luis bleeding in the corridor and Neymar falls to his knees by him immediately.

He doesn't know where to touch, how to help--not with Luis so still and now bleeding from the side of the head. His hands hover for a minute, and then he starts to roll Luis over onto his back. His friend is curled in on himself, having tried to protect his ribs. But the second he touches Luis, the other man growls, and Neymar snatches his hands away.

Luis' noises stop immediately, and he turns his face into the floor, trying to hide.

Neymar bites his lip. He feels helpless.

"Luis," Neymar says quietly after a minute. "Please, Luis, let me help you." He gently touches Luis' shoulder and flinches as his friend snarls softly. "Luis," he pleads, keeping his hand there. "It's alright," he promises. "It's just me, it's just Neymar.” He takes a deep breath, correcting himself. “Not Neymar, remember? Ney--your friend Ney. I won't hurt you, okay?"

Luis makes another threatening noise in his throat, but it trails off as Neymar carefully smooths down his arm.

"It's alright," Neymar repeats, gently turning Luis until he's face up. He shifts his friend slightly onto his lap, holding onto him so he can see his eyes. Luis whimpers a little, but allows the action, looking fearful. "You're okay with me," Neymar says, lifting up the corner of his shirt to dab against the bloody area of Luis' hair.

Luis tries to shake his head, baring his teeth and snarling slightly.

"Stop," Neymar says, holding him so he can't move. "You're bleeding," he explains, keeping his shirt on Luis' head and ignoring the growing stain. "Let me just do this."

Luis fights him for a minute, struggling in Neymar's arms, but then goes limp. He blinks up at Neymar, still looking terrified, and he whimpers again.

“I got you,” Neymar says, trying to stay calm so that Luis stays calm. But the truth is, he doesn’t know if Luis even recognizes him at this point. He thinks Luis mentioned remembering very little when he’s like this. And Neymar knows that Luis seemed to understand what Messi was saying—the first time Neymar saw Luis like this. So all Neymar can do is talk to him in a soothing tone of voice, and try to stop the bleeding. They’re a few feet away from Messi’s cell, and Neymar contemplates dragging Luis in there.

Except then three of the Chileans round the corner, their red bandanas giving them away immediately.

Neymar grits his teeth and wonders why they hell he and Luis didn’t walk faster. All of this could have been avoided if they’d just gotten to Messi’s cell quicker.

He’s found that other than Alexis, the other Chileans are people he should avoid. And as the group gets closer, he can see that they are ones he *really* should avoid. One of them is Jara, the man Dani warned him was handsy. Rafa had mentioned something about sexual assault when Neymar asked, and told him to be very careful never to shower next to him. The second man is Medel, who seems to start fights every other day—super violent fights, that is, where someone ends up bleeding all over the floor.

The third man is Vidal.

Neymar doesn’t know much about him—thinks he’s in prison for some drunk driving incident where a bunch of people were killed—and they’ve never spoken. But he’s never seemed friendly, and the sight of him makes Neymar's stomach twist into knots.

Vidal grins when he sees them, though his smile is anything but pleasant. “What do we have here?” he asks Jara and Medel, coming to a stop a few feet away from Neymar and Luis. “Surprised Messi’s let you both out of his sight…”

“He’s not usually so careless with his whores,” Jara chimes in, laughing.

“Oh, but Neymar’s new here, isn’t he?” Medel says, tilting his head from side to side as if he’s considering something. “Maybe Messi hasn’t tried him out yet.”

Neymar eyes them cautiously, but he doesn’t speak.

“You’ve probably figured out by now that you’ve lost whatever power you had with the Brazilians,” Jara says pityingly. “Now you’re nothing. Lower than low. Just a piece of ass for Messi and his cronies now that Alves has tired of you.” He winks at Neymar. “I’d love to show you a good time, myself,” he adds. "Especially if you're... fresh." He licks his lips.

Neymar tries not to throw up. “No, thanks,” he manages to choke out.

“You sure?” Jara says, apparently unable to take a hint. “You’d be my number one,” he promises, a hand stroking down his chest like he’s excited by the idea. “Not like with Messi, where this trash,” he says, pausing to look disgustedly down at Luis, “is his favorite.”

Luis growls threateningly, weakly snapping in Jara’s direction.

Jara just laughs.

Vidal crosses his arms. “We could do you a favor, you know,” he offers. He looks behind him in the hallway, and then behind Neymar to the other end to make sure that they’re all alone. “We could finish the job, here,” he says, pointing his chin at Luis. “Nobody would care if the cannibal ‘accidentally’ hit his head.”

Vidal makes air quotes around the word ‘accidentally.’

Neymar’s grip tightens on Luis.

“Think about it, eh,” Vidal continues. “Perhaps he hit his head so hard that he didn’t wake up.” He shrugs and winks at Neymar. “You might say that you’d be in a good position with Messi then. Wouldn’t have to split your time. Wouldn’t have to fight for his attention.”

“Of course, you’d owe us a favor then,” Jara says, licking his lips again. His fingers start tapping down his chest and he smiles. “And I’m sure we could come to some sort of… arrangement. Maybe get us in Messi’s good graces? Or something more, personal, perhaps.”

Vidal takes a step closer and squats down. “I could do it right here,” he says quickly. “Could smash his head against the wall, against the floor, against the concrete so hard that it’d split his skull. Head wounds bleed a lot. It would be easy to believe that he just fell and hit his head.” He flicks his eyes at Luis and smiles evilly. “He’s an animal, you know, it would be a kindness to put him out of his misery.”

Luis looks like he tries to snap again, but he can’t even lift his head. His arms are wrapped around his chest, and he’s wheezing like it hurts to breathe.

Vidal grins again and reaches out like he’s going to grab Luis by the throat.

But Neymar smacks his hand away. “No!” he shouts, pushing Vidal hard in the chest to get him away. It knocks their attacker off balance, but the Chilean recovers quickly. Neymar can’t really fight, not with Luis in his lap, so he tries to turn Luis’ head into his body to protect him. Luis growls weakly, but Neymar ignores it. “Fuck off and leave us alone.”

Vidal hisses. “You’ll be sorry,” he says, getting to his feet and brushing the imaginary dirt off his clothes. Medel reaches out to help him and Vidal shoves him away. “You’re making a mistake. And I was just trying to help you.” He lashes out towards Neymar and slaps him across the face. “Stupid slut.”

It snaps Neymar’s head to the side, but honestly, he’s too worked up to even feel it.

Neymar’s heart continues to hammer in his chest, and he clutches Luis closer. He thinks he feels Luis trying to bite him, but his adrenaline is pumping so much that he can’t even feel that either. “Fuck off,” he says again. And when they hesitate, he tries to sound angry. “If you walk away right now, I won’t tell Messi what you just tried to do. To someone that belongs to him.”

There’s silence after that, as Vidal weighs his words.

Neymar can practically see the panic in Jara’s eyes, and he knows he’s struck a nerve.

Eventually Vidal sneers. “Whatever,” he says, walking around them and continuing down the hall as if he’d never stopped in the first place. Medel jogs to join him. Jara looks around jittery like he wants to stay, but in the end, he follows Vidal and eventually they round the corner and are out of sight.

When they’re gone, Neymar takes a deep breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, resting his head on top of Luis’, utterly exhausted from the encounter. His cheek starts to sting, and tears start to spring to his eyes. “I thought,” he says into Luis’ hair, wishing desperately Luis could talk to him, “they were going to kill us.”

Luis has stopped trying to bite him and instead is making soft sounds of confusion in his throat. His fingers claw against Neymar’s arm, scratching slightly.

Neymar lifts his head. “I can’t survive here,” he says to the empty hallway, looking down to see Luis’ fearful gaze. There’s no real recognition there, Luis’ mind having retreated to wherever it went when things went bad. “I don’t understand this place—I don’t understand these people…” He shudders, blinking, knowing he can’t lose it—not now.

“I have nothing,” Neymar whispers, not expecting a response. “Nobody.”

And Luis doesn’t reply, dark eyes continuing to blink slowly. The bleeding from his head has stopped, and Neymar carefully pulls his shirt away from the wound. He dabs at Luis' split lip a bit, but thankfully that's already clotted.

“I thought I had Dani. And look how that turned out… Maybe I have you, but I won’t ever really be sure, now. Will I? Will you turn on me one day when Messi tells you to? Or would you try to protect me like you did just now?” Neymar sighs. “We should get you inside Messi’s cell,” he says tiredly. He tentatively reaches out towards Luis’ hair, and when Luis doesn’t show any sign of hostility, Neymar cards his fingers through it gently. “You should rest,” Neymar says. “Hell, you should probably see a doctor, but I’m fucking too scared to go get one.”

Luis closes his eyes like he’s tired, too.

“What if I go to get one and when I come back, Vidal’s cracked your head against the wall, hmm?” Neymar asks, continuing to pet Luis’ hair. “Or what if Guardiola comes back and decides he wants to hurt you again?” Neymar shakes his head. “You seem to have more people against you than I realized.”

Luis doesn’t answer, but he seems to relax in Neymar’s arms.

“Not Messi though,” Neymar says to himself. “Somehow you’ve done something to make him like you… maybe as much as you like him. It’s almost like he dotes on you. Is that because—? Because you’re sleeping together? Or something else?” He wonders what it was that Messi did for Luis to make Luis care about him. “Are you going to sleep?” Neymar asks, suddenly alarmed. He stops stroking through Luis’ hair. “Ah, ah, ah,” he says, patting Luis’ cheek. “Don’t go to sleep, okay? I don’t know if you have a concussion, but that would be bad, right?”

Luis' eyes flutter open and he focuses on Neymar. He squints as if he can't quite tell who is holding him. Then he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

"I'm going to try to drag you in, okay?" Neymar says, wondering if Luis is understanding anything. He shifts Luis onto the floor, the other man still entirely limp. Then, after considering the situation and looking from Luis to the door and back a few times, Neymar sighs. "Alright," he says to himself, "let's try." He grabs handfuls of Luis' shirt on either side of his chest, under his arms, and starts to pull Luis across the floor.

Luis makes a sound of discomfort, hands against his chest, but it's again more of a whimper than a growl, so Neymar continues.

It takes several minutes, even to just go a few feet. "You could," Neymar pants, "stand to lose a little weight!" He yanks and pulls on Luis until they're in Messi's cell and hidden from view. The bunks are a few more feet away, but Neymar's too tired to go all the way over to them. Instead, he gets a dingy blanket and a pillow and then shifts Luis until the other man is on his lap again.

Luis is docile, letting Neymar do whatever he wants, perhaps finally sensing that Neymar means no harm.

"Now you can rest," Neymar warns, patting Luis on the cheek again to get his attention, "but you can't sleep. That's bad." He thinks Luis understands because the man squints a little but keeps his eyes open. “Good,” Neymar says, gently prodding at the head wound again to make sure it’s stopped bleeding. Thankfully it looks like it’s all stopped, although his shirt and Luis’ both have blood streaked down them. Neymar just shrugs and pulls the blanket up Luis’ body to try to make him more comfortable.

They’re still there when the hallways start to fill with people.

And they’re still there when Rojo comes jogging up like he was ordered to fetch them. He takes one look at them and his face goes blank. “Oh, shit,” he says, squatting down in front of Luis. He grabs at the blanket and pulls it down, ignoring the resulting growl from Luis. His eyes widen at the blood stain. “Someone knife him?”

“No, just—just—the guards with their clubs. The blood is from his head,” Neymar says quickly. He gently turns Luis’ skull to the side so that Rojo can see the darkened area of his hair. “But they messed up his ribs real bad I think. Kicked him a lot,” Neymar says shakily. “He was having trouble breathing.”

Rojo flicks his eyes to Neymar. “And you?” he asks. “Or it’s just his blood?” When Neymar nods, Rojo closes his eyes and moves his lips very quickly. Neymar only catches a little of it but it sounds like he’s saying a prayer. When he’s finished, Rojo opens his eyes. “Don’t move,” he orders.

Neymar looks at him open-mouthed. “Does it look like I’m going somewhere?” he asks snarkily, immediately regretting it when Rojo arches an eyebrow in surprise.

“Alright, kid,” Rojo says, clucking his tongue. “Don’t get too excited. I’ll be right back with the others. And you’ll be explaining exactly what happened.” He turns back, giving a quick look to either direction of the cell, and then he’s gone.

Neymar takes a deep breath, trying to brace himself. “Right, like I really want to explain to Messi how I stood there and let them beat you,” he mutters, touching Luis’ hair again. “Definitely going to earn brownie points for that.” He rearranges the blanket again when Luis shivers.

And then Rojo is back. The whole group is with him, with Messi pushing Lavezzi in front of him and snapping his fingers down as soon as he sees Luis.

“Hit any vital organs?” Agüero asks, sounding hopeful as he moves closer and then squats down to look at Luis. Lavezzi mirrors him, though he’s silent as he tugs the blanket off and throws it over to the side. He starts pushing up Luis’ shirt, ignoring the way Luis starts to hiss at him.

Neymar carefully strokes through Luis’ hair. “Shhh,” he whispers. “Let him look.” He pets Luis’ hair a few more times until his friend quiets, and then he becomes aware of the fact that the others are all staring at him in disbelief. “What?” he mutters, gaze skittering across Messi’s dark eyes before looking at Agüero and Lavezzi.

Neither say anything, but Agüero’s lips press into a line.

Lavezzi just shakes his head and starts probing at Luis’ ribs. “I think they’re cracked, Leo,” he mumbles.

There’s no noticeable response from Messi, but Masche puts a hand on his arm. Either to comfort him or to restrain him, but Neymar doesn’t know which.

Lavezzi just looks at Rojo. “Help me get him onto the bed so I can be sure.”

Rojo and Di María bend down then to help Lavezzi, and between the three of them, they get Luis over to the bunk. There’s some whimpering and wheezing as they do so, and Lavezzi begins to probe Luis’ ribs immediately once they’ve got him down. “Yep,” he says, moving his fingers up and down Luis’ sides. There are horrid blue and purple bruises already splashed down Luis’ skin, and Lavezzi touches it rather gently as he determines the damage. “Three, I’d guess,” he finally reports, straightening up and turning back to Messi.

Messi doesn’t say anything.

Masche sighs, taking charge. “Shit, we’ll have to cover for him for a few days. I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, bind them up the best you can,” he says, scratching his chin. “And Kun, give him something.”

Neymar’s still on the floor, feeling cold now that he’s not holding Luis. He thinks about getting up, but he can see the face that Agüero makes and knows he doesn’t want to attract attention.

“What?” Agüero scoffs. “No, I’m not wasting it on him. He’s fine, they’re just cracked. He’ll live.” He goes over to the desk and hops up on top, kicking his feet back and forth as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s entirely obvious that he’s enjoying Luis being in pain.

“Kun,” Messi says then, softly. His dark eyes are still focused on Neymar. “Give him something,” he orders, looking as calm as ever, even though his tone says he’s feeling otherwise.

Agüero’s face doesn’t change, and he kicks his feet for a few more seconds. But then he smiles and hops off. “Yeah, yeah.” He digs into his pockets until he pulls out a little baggie filled with pills and waves it in his hand. “I can spare one I guess.” He walks over to Lavezzi and shakes out a tablet.

“More than one,” Messi says almost absentmindedly, eyes scanning Neymar’s face. His gaze pauses for a moment on Neymar’s cheekbone and his eyes darken like he’s furious.

Neymar doesn’t know why, but then he remembers how Vidal slapped him. He looks away self-consciously, not sure how to feel, watching as Agüero silently taps out two more pills.

Lavezzi takes the medication from Agüero’s hand and then grabs a bottle of water from underneath the bed. Luis seems foggy and doesn’t speak, but he’s able to swallow the pills down with a little help. Lavezzi then starts to brace his ribs with a few things he pulls out from underneath the mattress. Neymar watches sympathetically as Luis groans in pain, undoubtedly in agony with his ribs. But Neymar’s attention goes back to Messi immediately when the other man clears his throat.

“Tell me what happened,” Messi says. He crooks his finger at Neymar to make him stand up.

Neymar bounces up, the pillow on his knees falling to the ground. His legs are pretty much asleep and he staggers a bit, but then manages to straighten up. “I was, we were—,” he chokes out, feeling nervous all of a sudden as if he’d been the one to hurt Luis. He looks around at the others, grasping for his words, not knowing where to start.

They mostly ignore Neymar. Masche shakes his head like he knows this is going to take awhile. He goes over to take his usual chair next to the desk, waving a hand toward Rojo to take the post by the door. Di María looks like he’s at odds as to what to do with himself, but in the end, he goes out with Rojo. Lavezzi doesn’t look up, entirely focused on binding Luis’ ribs.

Neymar looks back at Messi and swallows. He opens his mouth to say that it all had happened so fast, that Guardiola and Enrique had grabbed Luis before he could do anything. But then, Messi takes a step towards him--the motion so quick that Neymar doesn’t even have time to back away. “Tell me what happened to Luis,” Messi says slowly. “And then…” Messi continues, hand sliding up to tilt Neymar’s chin up into the light.

“Then, you tell me who the fuck put that mark on your face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Let me know what you thought :) xo


	13. You Are Mine Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar feels something building in his chest, something he can’t put into words. He can’t breathe, and he leans into Messi’s touch, rocking forward on his toes until he thinks Messi might have to catch him. Because he *wants* something, *wants* to *feel*.
> 
> And then the moment is over.
> 
> Messi drops his hands and walks over to where Lavezzi is standing next to the bunk. He’s clearly done with the conversation, finished with Neymar, and yet Neymar feels completely unsettled. 
> 
> He feels numb, like things aren’t supposed to be finished.

 

 

Neymar licks his lips, taking a deep breath as he feels Messi’s fingers tighten on his chin. It’s not tight enough that it hurts, but it’s firm enough that Neymar feels he shouldn’t try to move. Truthfully, he’s almost taken aback by the fury he can feel radiating from Messi.

He hadn’t thought that he meant that much to Messi.

“Neymar,” Masche says, sounding exasperated at the growing silence.

“We—we were going back to rest,” Neymar stammers, as always, taking too long to speak when the others are waiting. The words are still hard to find, and they feel thick in his mouth. He wishes he could sit down and regroup. But he finds himself unable to look away from Messi’s piercing gaze now. “Luis said—he said you wanted me to rest.” When there’s no reply from Messi, no sign of acknowledgment, but also no sign of disagreement, Neymar continues. “We were almost here—and then Enrique and Guardiola stopped us.”

There’s a hiss from behind him then, a curse at Guardiola’s name, and Neymar’s startled. He pulls away from Messi’s hand to twist his head.

It’s Agüero.

Neymar looks at him warily, still entirely spooked by the Argentine. It’s pretty clear that Agüero will do Messi’s bidding, but it’s also pretty clear that Agüero might be a little unbalanced. And unpredictable. But Agüero merely glares and waves his hand, as if he’s saying “Go on, go on.” So Neymar turns back to look at Messi, only just now remembering that he pulled his chin out of Messi’s hand.

And he probably shouldn’t have done that.

But Messi again says nothing, stays perfectly still, hand now down at his side. Perfectly still… except for his fingers. He’s rubbing his thumb against the rest of his fingertips, eyes still trained on Neymar’s.

He’d rubbed his fingers like that before. But it had been when he’d wiped off Neymar’s makeup, and the glittery powder had clung to his skin.

But the makeup is long gone now.

Neymar he licks his lips again, remembering he’s supposed to be telling his story. “Guardiola and Enrique. They stopped us,” he says. “And Luis stepped in front of me. He was—he was—trying to shield me. He said we weren’t feeling well and just wanted to go so we could be well for work later.” He feels bile start to rise in his throat. “He was being respectful. He wasn’t looking for a fight or anything. But Enrique just threw him to the ground and started to hit him with the club!”

Messi tilts his head to the side, eyes still burning with anger. “And what did Guardiola do about it?”

Neymar forces himself to continue even though he knows Messi’s just going to get even angrier. “Nothing. He didn’t stop Enrique. Instead, he talked about maybe killing Luis,” he whispers, swallowing hard when he sees a vein in Messi’s forehead start to throb. “And then he shoved Enrique to the side and started to hurt Luis himself, and he kept doing it, kept kicking him over and over, calling him an animal.”

There’s another sound from Agüero behind him, but Neymar doesn’t look this time.

Messi nods, lips pressed together grimly like he’s gritting his teeth. “And then he told you what Luis did, no? Told you why they call him the cannibal.” His fingers have stopped rubbing together and he reaches out to touch Neymar’s chin again. His eyes flick from Neymar’s to the mark on his cheek. “He would have tried to scare you, to disgust you, no? And then he would have tried to bribe you.” His other hand reaches to touch Neymar's face too, fingertips barely brushing the skin as he examines the bruise closely.

Neymar nods the best he can, feeling Messi’s hands hold him steady. “Then he bribed me.”

Masche laughs from across the room. “Did you take it?”

Neymar doesn’t turn to look at him. “No, I couldn’t.” He stares at Messi, trying to figure out what the other man is thinking. “He wanted me to tell him what had happened with Higuaín. He said if I told him that… if I said the words, that it had been Messi who killed him, he could fix everything for me.”

Messi blinks slowly, dropping his hands again. “And you didn’t. Why not?”

Neymar can still feel the ghost of his touch so he turns his head, breaking their eye contact. He looks over at where Luis is motionless on the bed, where Lavezzi is bandaging up his injured ribs. “Many reasons,” Neymar finally whispers, remembering the way his friend had called his name in the hallway, and then the way Enrique had hit him with the club as punishment. “But then,” he says quietly, looking at the dried blood on the side of Luis’ head, “then Guardiola got angry and went back to kicking Luis.”

Neymar closes his eyes.

“He kicked him over and over and I thought—I thought they might really kill him then…” Neymar feels his stomach twist, remembering the way Guardiola’s steel-toed boots had flashed in the dim light. “But eventually Guardiola stopped.” He opens his eyes again and looks back at Messi.

It occurs to him that he needs to decide what to tell Messi about his face.

Because he had only *threatened* Vidal with tattling to Messi. It had been the one thing he could think of—Messi’s anger at someone touching his possessions. And it had been about the Chileans’ attempts to hurt Luis, not about Vidal slapping him. So while yes, his threat had worked—and the Chileans had backed off, apparently afraid of Messi’s retribution—Neymar still hesitates to actually say Vidal was the one who hit him.

Because if he does actually tell Messi, everyone will know, and he’ll probably be called a snitch for the rest of his stay in prison.

And Neymar is not a snitch.

So he daringly decides to withhold a bit of the story. He decides not to mention any of the Chileans, to keep back Vidal’s threats, Jara’s glances, Medel’s insults.

It might be the stupidest fucking thing he’s ever done (and that includes what got him into prison in the first place), but he implies that Guardiola put the mark on his face. And it’s not hard to act that way. He just rubs his cheek and looks down, pretending he’s in pain. “The last thing he told me was that I would be sorry.”

Messi’s got a furrow between his brows, and for half a second Neymar’s afraid that he’s figured out that Neymar’s not saying everything. But instead, Messi focuses on his words. “And are you?” he asks quietly. “Are you sorry?” He asks like he’s honestly curious, like he’s not sure why Neymar would have turned Guardiola’s offer down.

Neymar feels his chest loosen, knowing he’s gotten away with one. He tries not to show his relief and instead looks at Luis again. “Only that Luis got hurt standing up for me,” he admits. “I should have helped him more,” he says, shaking his head. “But all I could do was try to make sure he was okay afterward… And he didn’t really know me, didn’t really understand what had happened.” He sighs. “I think, maybe he realized eventually. Because he stopped fighting me, calmed completely.”

Agüero mutters something then, something too quiet for Neymar to hear.

But Messi appears to have caught it, and in the first sign of annoyance that Neymar has ever seen, rolls his eyes. He flicks his eyes over Neymar’s shoulder, probably looking at Agüero. Then looks back at Neymar. “You’re very loyal, very quickly,” he says softly, reaching out to touch Neymar's face yet again. For the third time, he tilts Neymar’s chin up, examines his face like he’s never seen it before.

But this time his fingers skim up Neymar’s cheek to cup it lightly. His thumb strokes over the bruise left by Vidal, his touch is more of a caress than anything, so tender that it startles Neymar.

He can only look back wide-eyed at Messi, not knowing what to say.

He’s so tired… and it feels like it’s been so long since someone has touched him like that…

And for it to be *Messi*…?

Neymar feels something building in his chest, something he can’t put into words. He can’t breathe, and he leans into Messi’s touch, rocking forward on his toes until he thinks Messi might have to catch him. Because Neymar *wants* something, *wants* to *feel*.

And then the moment is over.

Messi drops his hands and walks over to where Lavezzi is standing next to the bunk. He’s clearly done with the conversation, finished with Neymar, and yet Neymar feels completely unsettled.

He feels numb, like things aren’t supposed to be finished.

Neymar keeps replaying Messi’s words over and over in his head, wondering if there’s some hidden meaning. He shifts from foot to foot and follows Messi with his gaze, practically trembling as he stands there and tries to catch his breath. He can feel Masche and Agüero staring at his back, so he forces himself to stand up straight and keep calm. After all, the last thing he wants to do is draw more attention to himself. So instead, he watches as Messi says something to Lavezzi that’s too quiet for the rest of them to catch.

Lavezzi nods in response to whatever Messi says, scratching at his beard and smiling slightly. He lifts a thumb in the direction of the door and waves towards the bed. There’s no verbal response from Messi, but the smaller man takes Lavezzi’s former place, sitting down on the edge of the bunk. He leans closer to examine Luis’ bindings and peer down at his head wound. Luis doesn’t stir, eyes closed as if he’s sleeping, and Lavezzi doesn’t wait for any other instructions—he brushes by Neymar so that he can head for the door.

Masche coughs, drawing Neymar’s attention. He reaches into one of the drawers in the desk and throws a shirt over. It’s just a plain t-shirt, but it’s clearly clean. “Put that on and then,” he says and points over at the window sill.

Neymar makes a face, not liking that the window sill is now apparently his designated seat. But he doesn’t complain, pulls his bloodstained shirt over his head and changes into the plain one he’s been given. He’s about to toss his old shirt into a trashcan in the corner, but Agüero takes a step toward him.

“I’ll take that,” Agüero says, holding out his hand innocently.

Neymar has no idea why Agüero would even offer to help him, but he also thinks he’s already on Agüero’s bad side, so he starts to hold the shirt out.

“No,” Masche says, sounding bored. “It goes in the trash, Kun. Just leave it.”

Agüero merely smiles at Neymar, dropping his hand and sticking out his tongue. He walks around Neymar and exits the cell as if nothing he just did was out of the ordinary.

Neymar still doesn’t understand, but he throws the shirt into the trash and goes to sit on the window sill as instructed. He’s just about to heave himself when Messi speaks.

“Not there,” Messi says, still sitting on the edge of the bunk.

Neymar freezes, looking at Masche as if maybe he’d misheard. But Masche is looking at Messi, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Here,” Messi says, pointing to the end of the bed.

There’s not a lot of room there, not with Luis stretched out. But near Luis’ feet, against the wall, there might be room enough for Neymar’s slim body. So Neymar hesitates, but then crosses the room and wedges himself into the space carefully. He moves slowly as to not bounce the mattress, but Luis doesn’t seem to feel anything—perhaps too dazed from whatever medicine Agüero had given him.

Messi doesn’t look at him, staring down at Luis as if deep in thought.

Neymar shifts, trying to get comfortable, eventually digging his feet underneath Luis’ legs. He pats Luis’ thigh, somehow wishing he could do more. His eyes dart up to the strips of fabric wrapped around Luis’ ribs. Messi’s hand is sliding over them carefully, possessively, and Neymar watches, suddenly knowing that Messi is still extremely angry. Then he hugs his knees to his chest and wonders what he’s supposed to do now.

Lavezzi enters the cell again, this time holding a small bowl of water and a towel. He gives Masche a look that Neymar can’t interpret, and then he walks over to hand the bowl to Messi. Nothing is said, but Messi accepts it and the towel. Then Lavezzi turns on his heel and leaves again, and surprisingly Masche follows him, leaving Neymar alone with Messi and Luis.

Messi still doesn’t look at Neymar, and instead, dips the towel into the water. Neymar’s not sure what it’s for, but then he watches in fascination as Messi begins to dab at the dried blood on the side of Luis’ head. Over and over he dabs carefully, dipping back into the water before raising his hand to touch the cloth to Luis’ cut and the places the blood has dripped around it. It’s slow and methodical, and above all, gentle.

There’s no other way to describe it.

Neymar rests his chin on his knees and just watches.

He doesn’t know what to make of any of this—the most feared man in this prison gently cleaning blood off another inmate.

“He lied to you, you know,” Messi finally says, as he works his way around Luis’ hairline, wiping up whatever he can before dunking his towel back into the water. When Neymar doesn’t say anything, Messi pauses and looks at him. “Guardiola. He lied about Luis. Or at least, I expect he did.”

“What do you mean?” Neymar croaks, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He tried to hold back his interest, but the truth is he's eager for someone--*anyone*--to start explaining things.

Messi looks at him from under his lashes. “He wanted to terrify you. He probably told you that Luis ate people, no? About how that’s why they call him the cannibal?” He laughs slightly, but it’s a dark sound.

Neymar nods slowly.

Messi doesn’t look surprised, turning his attention back to Luis. He shrugs. “He killed people, yes, but they don't know that he ate them.”

“Why do they call him the cannibal then if he didn’t eat them?” Neymar asks, looking at Luis curiously, trying to understand.

Messi finishes up with the wound on Luis’ head and then smooths back the now wet hair. He touches Luis’ cheek lightly and then starts fingering Luis’ split lip, perhaps contemplating whether or not to start cleaning that. “Well, he did rip their throats out,” Messi says matter-of-factly. “Of course, they’d tortured him first. Driven him mad… He broke free eventually, but by then he wasn’t himself anymore. Killed them all in a fit of rage—used his hands, his nails, his teeth—and they found him covered in blood.”

Messi apparently decides Luis’ lip is fine and drops the dirty towel into the bowl of water and sets it on the floor.

“There was a picture of him… He looked crazed, snarling a those who tried to restrain him. ’Cannibal’ is just what made the headlines,” Messi says, turning his dark eyes back onto Neymar. “Everyone loves a good headline, no?”

Neymar nods. His fingers are clawing into his knees nervously, not knowing how to talk to this Messi. This isn’t the homicidal, scary Messi that he met before. Of course, it’s not the Messi he saw kissing Ronaldo either. No, this Messi is somewhere in between—something closer to a normal person.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Messi stares at Neymar for a long moment. “Of course, maybe you already know that after… your situation.”

Neymar blinks at him, trying to process that. “You mean, why I’m in prison,” he says, throat feeling very dry. “How do you know about that?” His heart is starting to beat faster and he realizes he’s having trouble breathing.

Messi continues to stare at Neymar, making no sign that he sees Neymar’s distress. “I make it my business to know most things,” he says, flicking his eyes to the door as if checking to see if they’re alone. “I wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise. Knowledge is power. And I’m very knowledgeable. I have people everywhere. You’ll find that out soon enough."

Neymar feels the blood drain from his face, wondering if Messi’s hinting about finding out happened with Vidal. Because there’s no way Messi could know that… Messi wasn’t there in the hallway. Nobody was there in the hallway…

“You’re very loyal, very quickly,” Messi says again suddenly, distracting Neymar from his panicking. He looks like he doesn’t understand. His hand rests on Luis’s head, and he starts combing through the dark strands, perhaps without even realizing he’s doing it.

“You said that before,” Neymar says, teeth clacking together since his chin is still on his knees. “But—but—,” he loses his momentum and nearly bites his tongue. “But Luis is my friend,” he finally gets out, the words loud in the now quiet cell. “It wasn’t loyalty… He’s my friend.”

Messi tilts his head. “You were loyal to me first, not to Luis. But, Luis… Not many people would call him their friend." His fingers continue to move through Luis' hair. "You have seen how the guards treat him... how Kun treats him... they treat him like he is beneath them--like he is nothing. Most of the Uruguayans will have nothing to do with him, you know.“ His face is expressionless. "But you, you call him your friend."

He says the word friend as if he does not know the meaning.

Neymar just feels awkward. He doesn't know what Messi wants him to say.

After a moment, Messi's lips quirk up in a half smile. "Your touch calmed him, when Pocho was trying to touch his ribs. It is clear to me that Luis knew you." He looks down at Luis and removes his hand from his hair. Then he shrugs. “It’s strange. Usually, he knows very little about who is around him during his bad moments. Especially if they are new people. Some sort of defensive mechanism. But with you? Well… Who is to say what he understands when he loses himself. It annoyed Kun, that’s for sure.“ But Messi says it fondly, as if he's unbothered.

Neymar weighs the silence afterward. He thinks is this is the longest Messi has ever spoken to him, and even if it is really about Luis, Neymar will take it. It’s clear that Luis means more to Messi than he’d first thought.

But perhaps this is Neymar’s path.

He’s friends with Luis. Maybe Luis, when he’s better, will convince Messi that Neymar’s not looking for trouble. And maybe, with Luis’ help, Messi will eventually accept him… Maybe Neymar will finally belong somewhere. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "that he got hurt." He bites his lip. "I'll try to do more for him next time."

And he will. He won’t just stand by idly while his friend his beaten over and over.

Messi turns his gaze on Neymar again.

"And what do you want from me in return for this?" Messi asks blandly, the half smile gone as his expression smooths out again. He sits up straighter, the shadows suddenly making it hard to see him except for the designs down his arm. "What sort of favor?" He’s gone still, and without having to do anything more, Neymar’s reminded of how dangerous he is.

Neymar still jerks surprise, raising his head off of his knees. "I--I--don't ask for anything," he stutters, too startled to even consider it. "I didn't help him because I wanted a favor..." He remembers what happened the last time Messi 'owed' him a favor and he shakes his head. "I don't want anything," he says helplessly.

It’s not entirely true.

But what he wants…

Messi leans forward into the dim light. His dark eyes are glittering. "Hmmm," he says. "You truly do not understand anything, do you."

It's not phrased as a question and Neymar doesn't feel the need to answer.

Messi considers him. "You work in the laundry, no? Alves moved you there as soon as you arrived, so he could keep an eye on you. That is where the Brazilians work.” He shrugs. “Something about keeping in shape, I heard. Do you wish to keep doing this?"

Neymar blinks. "What?"

Messi blinks back. "*We* do not work in the laundry room. We work in manufacturing.” He waves a hand. “The work is less demanding, perhaps, but the perks are better. You would have time to think, to catch your breath…” He tilts his head. “Do you want to work in manufacturing or do you want to stay in the laundry room?"

Neymar hesitates. He thinks of Dani, of Rafa, of Marcelo... then he thinks of how they abandoned him. "Whatever you want," he breathes, trying to hide his pain.

Truthfully, he just wants to fit in somewhere. And if Messi is willing to accept him...

Messi stares at him. He leans back into the shadows. "You are very foolish to say such things,” he mutters. “In time you will learn. But it is no matter. You are mine now. And you shall stay with me then."

Neymar can't see his face, can't see his eyes or whether or not he looks pleased by this. All Neymar can see of him are the bright tattoos spilling down his arm--and that doesn't tell him anything, no matter how interesting they are. Of course, even if Neymar could see him, there's no reason why Messi would have let his guard down long enough for Neymar to read him.

And then Messi abruptly stands up, ignoring the way the mattress bounces as he does so. He walks back over to his desk and sits at the chair, starting to rifle through his drawers.

Neymar watches him, feeling like he has both passed a test and failed it at the same time.

There isn’t time for him to get too worked up over that, however, because Lavezzi reenters the cell. He hands something to Messi and then tosses something else in Neymar’s direction. “Think fast, kid,” he calls, and Neymar only has seconds to hold his hands out. As it is, his fingers are able to catch it.

It’s a sandwich wrapped in plastic.

And it’s perhaps the most appetizing thing that Neymar’s seen all month. His stomach gurgles suddenly and he realizes that they must be missing lunch. “Thanks,” he says belatedly, looking up to see Lavezzi grinning at him.

“No problem,” Lavezzi says, winking at him before going back the way he came.

Neymar carefully unwraps his food and starts to devour it, unable to remember the last time something tasted so good. He thinks—*he thinks*—it’s roast beef, but there’s also cheese and some wilted lettuce, and even a few tiny slices of tomato. He finishes it too quickly, licking his fingers and then dabbing up any stray crumbs sticking to the plastic. Then he sorrowfully crumbles the plastic wrap up into a ball and looks up to find Messi staring at him.

Neymar opens his mouth to ask why, and then bites his tongue.

Messi’s sandwich is unopened on the desk next to him, and Neymar wonders why he isn’t eating. Agüero reappears then, hands in his pockets, humming some tune or another. He saunters across the room and hops up onto the desk, crushing whatever papers are on top.

Messi doesn’t look away from Neymar until Agüero begins to unwrap the sandwich. “Not eating today?” Agüero asks, taking a bite. He chews noisily and makes an exaggerated, “Mmmm,” sound. When Messi turns to look at him, Agüero reaches for his hand and then sticks the sandwich in it. “Mmmm,” he says again, grinning at Messi despite the lettuce stuck in his teeth.

Messi doesn’t say anything, but he does start eating, shoving at Agüero’s leg so that he can pull out an envelope from underneath him. “Neymar’s not in laundry anymore,” he says after he swallows what’s in his mouth. He holds the envelope up. “Tell Martino to fix it in the system. I don’t want any unnecessary problems.”

Agüero’s grin dims, but he sticks the envelope into his pocket. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, kicking his feet. His gaze travels over to where Neymar’s still huddled next to Luis.

Neymar nervously squeezes the plastic ball from his sandwich between his hands.

“You want me to…?” Agüero asks, leaning in to nudge his head against Messi’s, still looking at Neymar. He leaves it there a moment, his mouth disappearing from sight as he brushes against Messi. Perhaps he whispers something. Then he then leans back, all the while still staring over at the bed. His smile starts to get bigger and bigger, undoubtedly sensing Neymar’s confusion.

Messi doesn’t answer, and instead takes another bite of his sandwich. But he touches Agüero’s hip with two fingers, and it takes Neymar a minute to realize that he’s resting them where Agüero pocketed the envelope.

“Yeah, yeah,” Agüero repeats, hopping off the desk. His hand trails along Messi’s shoulders before he heads for the door.

He gives Neymar the finger before he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art by the fabulous artist: fulldazeobjec](http://fulldazeobjec.tumblr.com/)


	14. The Damage is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar closes his eyes, having a sudden longing for Dani. He starts to wonder if maybe he should have chosen the laundry room when Messi gave him a choice. He could have talked to Dani, could have asked him what happened. Rafa and Marcelo would have been there, too, and they would have told Neymar the truth… Neymar’s sure of it.
> 
> He’s brought out of his thoughts as Agüero slams a tray down next to his hands, nearly missing smashing his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while guys, sorry about that. If you're really wondering when I update though, you might tend to notice that I post something approximately every 15 days. This is not on purpose, but with real life, this just tends to be the way it works out!

Everyone’s back at Messi’s cell by the time the bell rings, and they all walk together down to the lower level. (Everyone except for Luis, that is. He’s still out of it so he stays where he is, though Neymar sees Messi pull a blanket over him before they leave. Messi catches Neymar looking, but doesn’t seem to care, pushing by him to stride out of the cell with the others hot on his heels.)

Neymar’s never traveled down this way before, due to the laundry rooms being on the main level along with the cells and the cafeteria. The hallways are a little darker and creepier than he likes, especially since there aren’t any windows, but he’s with a group so he’s not worried. If he ever has to go by himself, he realizes that the path isn’t overly confusing and so he doesn’t think it would be too difficult to find his way there or anything. Lavezzi walks beside him, chatting about how it was chilly outside earlier and how he hopes it starts to warm up.

Neymar tries not to make a face, truly happy that Lavezzi’s actually trying to talk to him. He just wishes Lavezzi were better at small talk.

Of course, Neymar is grateful, especially since the rest of the Argentines haven’t been that welcoming. Masche seems to be glaring every time he looks in Neymar’s direction. Rojo keeps smirking, Di María looks disgusted, and Agüero just appears to want to murder him.

And Messi, well, Messi’s expressionless again.

Especially now that they’re out in a public area.

Despite being surrounded—and he *is* surrounded—Neymar feels quite alone. So if Lavezzi wants to talk about how his dick feels like it’s going to freeze and fall off, well, Neymar’s going to smile and nod and hum at all the semi-appropriate times. It’s not as easy as it was when Neymar used to walk with Marcelo or Lucas, but still, it’s nice to have someone to talk to again.

As they go through a set of double doors at the end of the hallway, Neymar’s herded over to the left side and over to a set of tables. Masche’s suddenly next to him, pointing expectantly until Neymar sits obediently on a hard bench. “Sit here, don’t move,” Masche orders, despite the rest of them heading over to retrieve supplies from shelves over by the wall. Even Messi is gathering up boxes, something that Neymar never thought he’d see.

Neymar doesn’t have a problem with following directions, though, and he waits patiently, taking a look around the room as he does so. It occurs to him that he never really paid attention to who was in manufacturing as opposed to laundry, so he’s interested to see that it looks like the Portuguese and the Spaniards are also assigned here.

He spots Quaresma and Pepe—both of them a little hard to forget—before his eyes fall on Ronaldo.

Ronaldo sees him at the same time, and though the other man looks calm, Neymar is pretty sure that Ronaldo’s not happy. Something’s ticking in his jaw as if he’s grinding his teeth.

Neymar looks away from him, remembering the way Ronaldo had kissed Messi. He still has no idea what to think about that, but he knows he needs to keep quiet about it if he wants to keep on living.

The Spaniards are noisy, drawing his attention, and he can’t help but laugh as he sees Ramos and Piqué arguing about something or another. They’re also taking turns holding trays above their friend’s head… Neymar forgets his name, but he knows the kid is their basketball buddy. Jordi something or other, he thinks, as he moves from face to face. He knows most of them all by now, though he’s not really friends with them, as the Brazilians and the Spaniards didn’t mix that often. So he doesn’t wave or say hi, but he nods at Iker and Xavi, Iniesta, and the young looking one—Roberto. Isco is there too, one of his fingers still splinted, sitting next to Morata.

Neymar closes his eyes, having a sudden longing for Dani. He starts to wonder if maybe he should have chosen the laundry room when Messi gave him a choice. He could have talked to Dani, could have asked him what happened. Rafa and Marcelo would have been there, too, and they would have told Neymar the truth… Neymar’s sure of it.

He’s brought out of his thoughts as Agüero slams a tray down next to his hands, nearly missing smashing his fingers.

“Get to work,” Agüero says, grinning. It’s that crazy looking smile that always freaks Neymar out, and Agüero keeps grinning while he slides the tray closer to Neymar. It’s full of circuits and metal parts, silver and black pieces rolling around while Neymar sits there open-mouthed. “Since your friend decided to go and take a nap, we’re gonna have to do extra to make up for his share. Otherwise, it’s coming out of your skin.” He abruptly loses his smile and then moves down the table to sit next to Rojo.

It’s clearly so he’s not right next to Neymar.

Neymar stares at the tray blankly, having absolutely no idea what to do. He looks up helplessly, staring at Messi and Masche as they join their table. Messi’s carrying what looks like ten different trays—almost double what everyone else is carrying—and he furrows his brow at Neymar’s confusion. It’s as if he thinks this is something a child could do.

Di María’s the one who actually does anything, though. He sits down next to Neymar and shakes his head. He points to a picture at the top of the tray that Neymar hadn’t noticed. “Just copy this. Put the pieces where they belong. It doesn’t have to be perfect because they send them out to be finished by another group and they’ll double check everything and make sure it’s safe. When you’re finished you take your tray over there,” he says, tilting his chin in the direction of empty shelves. “Normally, you’d write your cell number so you’d get credit, but since this is your first day we’re probably going to have to do some for you.” At Agüero’s muttering at the end of the table, Di María rolls his eyes. “And for your friend.”

Neymar finds himself taken aback by the hostility that first Agüero, and now Di María, seem to have for Luis. He’d just assumed that Agüero was an asshole, but now he realizes that Messi was telling the truth about the way Luis is treated.

It makes Neymar’s stomach twist painfully as he thinks about how lonely Luis must be here.

He wonders if Luis has any other friends. Perhaps Messi is the only one who’s ever bothered with him. And if that’s the case, well Neymar certainly understands Luis’ devotion a little better then.

It makes him look at Messi with fresh eyes too.

Because for Messi to care about Luis—and he does care, Neymar had seen that for himself—that must mean that there’s more to Messi than meets the eye.

Messi lifts his head suddenly to stare at Neymar as if he senses that Neymar’s thinking about him. Neymar looks down guiltily, though then he looks up at Messi from under his lashes, still intrigued. He only stops looking at Messi when Di María elbows him.

“See?” Di María asks. Neymar watches as he reaches for the little metal bits rolling around in his tray, sorting them over on the side by color and size before he starts to put them into the mold. When Di María looks at him expectantly, Neymar begins to copy him. He finds it’s not that difficult to follow the picture.

It’s certainly easier than hauling wet linens around.

Sure, his back starts to hurt from being hunched over for hours. And yes, sometimes the tiny pieces get stuck to his sweaty hands instead of staying where Neymar wants them to go. And of course, his eyes start to hurt after squinting and concentrating while he completes tray after tray after tray… Not to mention that he’s carried over a few finished trays and then ended up shaking them so much that they’re useless and he’s forced to redo them.

(Agüero’s laughed every time.)

Every time he finishes, he looks up and is surprised to see how much quicker everybody else. His own meager contribution seems pitiful when he sees the stacks of trays that Messi’s finished. By the time the bell rings, Neymar’s just about had it. Still, he reminds himself that he chose this. “Did I—,” he asks, when he finds himself next to Messi as everybody gets to their feet. “Did I do enough to help with Luis’ share today?”

Messi’s lips turn up in a half-smile before he smooths his face out. He doesn’t turn his eyes over to Neymar’s finished pile, perhaps already having done the calculations. “It’s fine,” he says. Agüero comes up behind Messi, homicidal grin firmly in place, hand sliding across Messi’s shoulders. “And tomorrow you’ll do better,” Messi continues, studying Neymar’s face.

Neymar nods, knowing that’s true, knowing that he *can* do better.

He *wants* to do better.

Messi looks down slightly at Agüero’s hand on his shoulder and then back at Neymar. Neymar’s not sure, but he thinks Messi’s eyes soften. And then there are some shouts behind them, and the moment is over. Messi turns away, Agüero glued to his side, and they all begin to exit the room.

Neymar stands there, unable to move. He’s trying to decipher the look in Messi’s eyes. He doesn’t know what he did to make Messi look at him like that, but whatever it was, he wants to do it again.

Because…

It’s another step in the right direction.

Another sign that perhaps Messi’s accepting him?

Neymar’s shaken from his thoughts as Piqué—pulling Roberto by the arm—pushes a few people out of the way in pursuit of Ramos. A few people look annoyed, but nobody really reacts. Neymar just shakes his head and waits for the crowd to thin out, not wanting to get in anybody’s way.

“Dude,” Rojo says suddenly from behind him, sending Neymar’s heart into his throat. “What are you waiting for? Just go.” Rojo’s smacking some gum, sounding irritated. “I wanna get to the showers before the warm water is gone,” he says, some of the words a little hard to understand due to his chomping.

Neymar forces himself to walk to the door, not necessarily very excited about going to the showers. It occurs to him that this is the first time he’ll be showering with the Argentines, and that means everything’s going to be awkward. He’d gotten used to things with Dani and Rafa and Marcelo, gotten used to his routine, but now he’s not sure how things are going to go. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but at the same time, it is.

Will they all shower at the same time? Or will somebody wait with their clothes and things to make sure they’re not stolen? Will they herd him into the middle to protect him? Or will they just let him do his own thing? Nobody's going to touch him, or at least that's what Luis had promised... and Neymar wants to believe that.

He finds he’s a little nervous about the whole thing. And then he's nervous for a whole new reason, especially when he realizes that he might see the Chileans for the first time since the incident in the hallway.

And then, as he makes it to the hallway, he’s a little abashed to find out that everyone is waiting for him.

Agüero looks antsy and Lavezzi and Di María just look bored. Masche's leaning against the wall, cleaning his nails with something that looks shiny and sharp. Neymar should really wonder about how easy it is for Masche to just be idly handling a weapon in the middle of the hallway, but instead, as always, Neymar's eyes are drawn toward Messi.

"Problem?" Messi asks, gaze focused on Neymar even as some of the other inmates stream around them, continuously chattering.

In the distance, Neymar can hear Piqué's booming laughter.

"No," Neymar chokes out, rubbing his palms against his pants in an effort to dry them. He's not sure this will be enough of an answer, but Messi doesn't press him for more and they all start walking again. Lavezzi sidles up to Neymar once more, helping him take his mind off how dim the hallways are.

"When we get to the showers," Lavezzi says conversationally, looking like he wants to wrap an arm around Neymar, "remind me to show you my gun." He doesn’t actually touch Neymar, perhaps because of Messi’s warning eyes, but still seems to see the way Neymar stiffens as they go around a corner. "I think you'll really like it," Lavezzi continues, grinning mischievously.

"He means his dick," Di María confides as Lavezzi starts to laugh.

"Awww," Lavezzi says, dropping away Neymar to swing at Di María. "Why'd you go and tell him?" Di María dodges, wiggling his eyebrows, returning the swat halfheartedly.

Neymar finds he can't help smiling as they start to scuffle. It reminds him of Douglas and Adriano. "I already knew that," he says without thinking, before the other two abruptly stop fighting to stare at him. "I mean," he stammers as they walk, trying to fix things, "Dani told me once."

Lavezzi's smile reappears. "Oh yeah?" he asks. "What else did crazy Alves tell you about me?"

Neymar, knowing he should tread carefully, then proceeds to trip over nothing and almost fall flat on his face. "Nothing," he says quickly. "I mean, not nothing," he says when Lavezzi arches an eyebrow. He flicks his eyes to Di María and then back to Lavezzi. "Just like, why you're in prison, is all... Nothing else, really."

Lavezzi's grin stays in place. "Yeah? And that had to do with my dick?"

Di María nudges him. "Technically it did, no?"

Lavezzi laughs, conceding the point. He scratches his jaw. "Alright, so long as you weren't just talking shit or anything." He pushes Di María ahead of him and the other man walks faster to talk to Masche.

Neymar shakes his head furiously. "No," he says, desperately wanting to stay on Lavezzi's good side. "It just came up, because we were talking about tattoos a little, is all." He nods to himself, knowing that it's close enough to the truth. "It--it was my first day, and they were just pointing out people to me and of course I could see you guys from my table, that's all. And I mean, Rojo,” he pauses to take a look over his shoulder and make sure that the other man isn’t right behind him. Rojo is a few feet back and not paying any attention so Neymar continues, changing to a bit of a whisper, “had the diamond and Agüero had the script on his arm, and I was just admiring everything is all.” Neymar chatters on and on, seemingly unable to bite his tongue.

Lavezzi shrugs. “Alright,” he says, pointing a finger at Neymar like a gun. He pretends to shoot Neymar and then winks. “You’ve got your own ink, I’ve noticed,” he says, tilting his head toward Neymar’s arms. But he doesn’t ask anything about them.

Neymar wonders if he’s supposed to answer, so finally, he does. “Yeah,” he mutters, looking down at his arm in thought. “A lot for my family,” he mumbles, not really wanting to explain more than that. “Some for faith, you know?”

And some for himself.

But he keeps that to himself.

Lavezzi doesn’t seem to care. “Typical,” he says, bumping into Neymar a touch as they come up out of the darker hallways and onto the main level. “You’d be weirder if you didn’t have any tats, you know? The fact that you have them just makes you fit in.” He says it absentmindedly, looking around while they start to make their way through the more crowded area. “Good for you,” he adds, like Neymar’s a child.

Neymar’s half flattered by that—by the idea that he fits in somewhere.

Of course, then he remembers that he’s fitting in with prison inmates and he starts feeling a little less happy about it. He doesn't have that long to really think about it though because before he knows it, Rojo is escorting him back to his cell to get his soap. And then a minute later, Neymar's back with the group and they're almost at the showers. His pulse starts to quicken. He's reminding himself that it's not such a big deal... except then he looks up and sees Jara slipping into the room ahead of them.

Neymar winces. His cheek aches.

Lavezzi, who pulled Neymar back to him so they could continue their discussion, doesn't notice, now chattering on about his next tattoo and how he's torn between a rosary or something else. "All I know is that if I end up getting the rosary, I want it sorta to be pointing downwards too, you know?" Lavezzi rambles on, as he starts stripping off and throwing his clothes onto a shelf. He thumbs his ribcage thoughtfully. "Indicating where to go if someone wants a religious experience," he says grinning. "You feel me?"

Neymar blinks at him, hoping that line of questioning doesn't really require an answer.

Thankfully Lavezzi seems lost in thought, and so Neymar takes off his own clothing and adds it to Lavezzi's. Around him, the others are doing the same, so Neymar just decides to follow their lead. When they're all naked (except for Di María, who apparently is the one designated to watch their things) they file into the showers.

They seem to have some assigned corner because they head straight for an area in the back. It makes sense since Dani had always showered in the same place every day. Neymar lifts his head and scans the room, ignoring most of the people as he looks for his cousin. But he doesn't see Rafa or Casemiro or Adriano. He doesn't see any of the Brazilians, and he has to shake himself out of it as he realizes he's supposed to be following the Argentines.

He nervously rushes by a glaring Zlatan, a smiling James, and frowning Ronaldo, ignoring the way all three of them look at him. Then he walks even quicker by the Chileans that he now sees showering against the wall. Medel is quite blatantly staring at him, while Jara is leering, and Vidal is plainly ignoring him completely. Neymar focuses on Agüero and stays close to him until they're at the back. Agüero takes Messi's left while Masche takes Messi's right. Rojo, Neymar's usual guide, follows Agüero and takes the other shower next to him. Neymar flounders for a bit but then Lavezzi tilts his head over towards Masche.

Neymar's a little happy about it, to be honest, because this way he is somewhat protected. He chances a look over his shoulder to see that Jara is still staring at him. Immediately, Neymar faces the water again, feeling disgusted. Yes, he’s happy to be next to Masche.

The other thing is, well, Neymar's a little relieved not to be right next to Messi.

He's not sure why. There's just something. Something buzzing around in his brain that tells him that being right next to Messi would be a bad idea. And as Neymar soaps himself up and ducks under the water, he really wishes he could figure out what his brain is trying to tell him. He sneaks a look at Messi out of the corner of his eye, trying to see what could possibly be the problem.

And then he nearly chokes on the water.

Because he's figured out why the hell his brain was trying to send him signals.

It's because Messi's ass is the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Neymar immediately shuts his eyes and looks away, but the damage is done. Because now he's seen it. He's broken his one rule in the showers and looked below the waist--something that he knew he should avoid doing if possible. And somehow it doesn't matter how many other dicks and asses he's seen, how many naked men he's seen dripping with water or wet with soap... None of them have made him feel like this.

It's the worst.

It’s unexpected.

He's somehow managed to never get an erection in the showers.

He's been very careful, knowing that it would send the wrong signals, or give other men the wrong idea. Because he's not looking for somebody in here, not looking for someone to press him up against the wall and remind him how much he likes getting fucked. This isn't his old life where he could go out to the club, blow somebody in the back and then let that somebody take him home for the night... That had been about fun, about playing around--about taunting and teasing and laughing while he fell into some random man's bed and eagerly spread his legs.

He liked that life, liked hands tugging on his hair, liked having something thick inside of him.

But that was another life.

It's very clear to him that none of these people are the type of men he should be messing around with. Neymar forgets sometimes, forgets that they’re murderers and rapists and criminals—forgets that some of them are just looking for an excuse. But when he remembers… He remembers. And knowing that, no matter how many flirtatious smiles he's gotten, or outrageous winks, or even glares, Neymar's always managed to keep his body calm. He's only ever allowed himself to get hard in the privacy of his own bunk, only ever allowed himself to drop a hand to his aching cock when he knows he won't be interrupted.

Yes, he's managed to stay calm in public until now.

Because now, even though his eyes are squeezed shut, the image of Messi's plump ass is burned into his eyelids. And his body is starting to react.

Neymar hunches over himself immediately, cursing silently as little Neymar begins to perk up. He doesn't dare reach down to touch himself, doesn't dare draw attention to himself like that. The best that can happen is Lavezzi laughs at him, but the worst...? Neymar doesn't want to speculate. So instead he turns the water colder, turns it as cold as he can stand, and he digs his nails into his palms, willing his body to relax, willing his dick to calm down.

He tries to forget the way Messi's body had gleamed, the way the water had poured over him, the way the soap had clung to his curves as Messi's brightly colored arm had reached over his head... Messi's thin and muscled--Neymar had known that--but now he's thinking of those strong thighs, and the way Messi's skin would look against his. He tries not to imagine what could have happened if Messi had turned and seen him, if those dark eyes had met his, if the other man and reached out and crooked a finger at him.

Would Neymar have gone?

Would Messi have turned from the shower, uncaringly aroused? Would he have pressed Neymar against the cold tile while everyone watched? Made Neymar arch his back and spread his legs, exposing himself to the whole room? Or maybe he'd have shoved Neymar down into his knees and stood in front of him expectantly. With the water running in rivulets down his chest and flat stomach, disappearing into the curls around his thick—

Neymar ducks his face into the water and tries to choke himself.

Because it's *Messi*.

If there's one man that Neymar shouldn't be thinking about like that, it's Messi.

He turns the water colder. Colder than he can stand it. He turns it so cold that he's shivering in no time, goosebumps spread out across his entire body. And he stays there until his dick calms down and he forgets that he wants Messi to fuck him.

He gets dressed quickly after that.

He doesn't look Messi in the eye.

Or Lavezzi.

Or Rojo.

Or any of them, really. God forbid what would happen if they found out... Neymar pauses as he's putting his shoes back on. Because actually, he doesn't know what would happen. Still, he thinks, shaking his head, they're not going to find out because he's not going to tell anyone. And he keeps repeating that to himself over and over as they walk back in a group towards the cells.

He doesn't look at Messi's ass. Or his hair. Or his back. Or the way his tattoos catch the light as they swing by his sides.

But he's hyper aware of Messi’s body now.

Logically, he knew it existed. He’d known how attractive Messi was. But it hadn't registered. Perhaps Neymar had been distracted by other things. But the truth is that Neymar had noticed everything about Messi. The dark hair, the piercing eyes, the pale skin only brightened by the tats... And that was just his physical appearance... Neymar had noticed other things too, like Messi's tendency to smooth out his face to hide his feelings, or the occasional sentimental look that Messi had when speaking to Agüero or Luis...

And of course, Neymar had noticed--felt--the overwhelming amount of power pouring off of Messi anytime the other man looked at him. The power, the strength... the danger.

Neymar had seen it all.

Along with the ass.

"Jesus, fuck," Neymar mumbles, as his eyes threaten to fall onto Messi for the umpteenth time. He scrambles to look around the hallways instead, desperate for a distraction.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get one.

Because as soon as they reach the hallway with their cells, Messi turns around to stare at him. Neymar freezes, panicking that Messi has somehow sensed his gaze. But Messi makes no mention of it. Instead, Messi tilts his head. He stares at Neymar and then nods, as if he's made a decision. "We're going to see the German," he says quietly to Rojo and Masche, who raise their eyebrows in surprise. But neither say anything and after a beat, they continue on their way back to the cells.

Messi remains behind.

With Neymar.

"Come," Messi says, as if Neymar's his dog. And then he turns and heads down the hallway, going only a few feet before he stops. Neymar hurries to catch up to him, nearly tripping over the floor. But again, Messi doesn't mention Neymar's behavior. He simply waves down the hall to the cell all the way at the end. "The German," he repeats. His eyes focus on Neymar's.

And then he says something surprising.

"I owe you a favor."


	15. You Never Forget Your First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, because Neymar’s a fucking idiot, he can’t hide his surprise. Especially since Messi’s staring right at him. But at least this is a welcome distraction from Messi’s ass. “What favor?” Neymar asks, looking back wide-eyed at Messi. “I thought—It was made very clear to me that Dani took my favor,” he says, somehow keeping his voice level.
> 
> He remembers that feeling of betrayal very well.
> 
> Messi seems amused, pausing to lean against the wall. His dark hair sticks slightly against the cement but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Why would you question me owing you a favor?” His eyes flick over Neymar’s head, perhaps making sure they’re alone, before looking directly at him again. “I’ll deal with Alves. He’ll have to wait for Luis to heal a little before he gets what he wants. Even if patience was never something he was good at.” He tilts his head to the side, the motion pulling his hair from the wall. “This isn’t about Alves, in any case. It’s about you. And I repay my debts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been awhile. Thank you for your patience and your lovely comments.

Of course, because Neymar’s a fucking idiot, he can’t hide his surprise. Especially since Messi’s staring right at him. But at least this is a welcome distraction from Messi’s ass. “What favor?” Neymar asks, looking back wide-eyed at Messi. “I thought—It was made very clear to me that Dani took my favor,” he says, somehow keeping his voice level.

He remembers that feeling of betrayal very well.

Messi seems amused, pausing to lean against the wall. His dark hair sticks slightly against the cement but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Why would you question me owing you a favor?” His eyes flick over Neymar’s head, perhaps making sure they’re alone, before looking directly at him again. “I’ll deal with Alves. He’ll have to wait for Luis to heal a little before he gets what he wants. Even if patience was never something he was good at.” He tilts his head to the side, the motion pulling his hair from the wall. “This isn’t about Alves, in any case. It’s about you. And I repay my debts.”

Neymar still doesn’t quite understand, but Messi looks like he’s finished explaining things. So Neymar follows Messi obediently to the cell at the end of the hall, getting more and more nervous as he realizes he doesn’t know anything about any of the Germans. He tries to remember what Dani and Rafa had told him about them, but all he can recall is somebody telling him that there aren’t many Germans around anymore.

The first thing he hears is familiar laughter, though, and it makes him relax. As he and Messi approach the cell entrance in front of them, Neymar realizes that some of the Spaniards are already there.

Piqué is sitting on the chair by the door and blocking their way. He’s tilted the chair so it’s off balance, but his long legs are propped up against the wall. Roberto is sitting on his lap, arm wrapped around his neck so he doesn’t fall as Piqué rocks the chair back and forth precariously on two legs. The pair of them are giggling madly, despite the wobbling, completely focused on the figures over by the bed.

Neymar squints a little and realizes that Ramos is stretched out on the bunk, bare to the waist with his pants low on his hips, hands clenching around the metal bars over his head. He’s cursing up a storm as a man with blond hair sits in another chair and bends over him. Neymar wonders what the hell is going on. But as Messi gives Piqué’s legs a kick, and the other man settles back in his chair to let them pass, Neymar understands a little better.

He realizes that this must have been why the Spaniards had run off after working. He still can’t see the face of the blond man bent over Ramos, but he can see the small box of open bottles of ink next to him. And he can hear the whirring of the tattooing being done. Apparently, the tattoo is going on Ramos’ lower stomach, though Neymar can’t see exactly what the design is.

“Stop fucking laughing,” Ramos says, groaning. “You know this always happens.” He catches Neymar’s eyes and grins. “Maybe Neymar will give me a hand since the two of you are being so unhelpful.”

Neymar takes a half step forward curiously, but Messi seizes his wrist. It’s a good thing too, because Neymar realizes that Ramos is palming a growing bulge down between his thighs. “Um,” Neymar says, realizing that Ramos is turned on by the pain from his tattoo. “No, thanks,” he says while Ramos purses his lips and winks at him.

“Fuck off, Ramos,” Messi grumbles, seeming slightly annoyed. “When are you going to be finished?”

The blond man turns his head. “A few more minutes,” he says slowly, his face blank as he stares at Messi. When Messi nods, the man ducks his head. He doesn’t look at Neymar at all and then turns back to finish up his work on Ramos.

Ramos groans at the first touch of the needle and Piqué’s obnoxious laughter fills the cell once more. “Sergi!” Ramos calls. “I’ll make it worth your while!”

Neymar watches curiously as Roberto slides off of Piqué’s lap. The boy slinks over to kneel on the ground next to Ramos’ head. “Will you?” he asks sweetly, and when Ramos groans again, he bends down to kiss him sloppily. Ramos’ hand moves off of the metal bar to fist itself in Roberto’s hair, holding him there and then trying to pull him down onto the bed. Roberto laughs into the kiss, bracing himself against the bunk and then leaning away to catch his breath.

“Enough,” Piqué says, his grin still firmly in place. “I want him back now.” He rocks back on his chair unsteadily and crooks his finger. “Sergi, Sergi, Sergi,” he sings merrily. “I’m getting lonely…” Roberto perks up, yanking his head away from Ramos’ hand, and then he returns to his previous position on Piqué’s lap.

Neymar watches open mouthed as the two of them begin to make out. His eyes dart between the sight and Ramos groaning over on the bed, and he wonders how exactly that all works. He doesn’t have too much time to consider it, however, because the blond man finishes up his work on Ramos’ stomach. Neymar only notes that it looks like some sort of angel wings before the artist wipes over it and presses some sort of bandage on it.

“Don’t mess it up,” the blond man says, starting to put his tools back into a box.

Ramos gets up slowly, waving a hand, and pulls on his shirt. “I know the drill,” he says. When he’s dressed, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Thanks, good as always. As we discussed,” he says, handing it over.

Neymar wonders what’s inside, but the blond man pockets it immediately, nodding politely.

Ramos slides by them, blowing a kiss at Neymar and ignoring Messi.

Neymar almost takes a step back before he realizes that Messi’s still got a hand around his wrist and is holding him in place. He doesn’t have much time to contemplate that before Piqué and Roberto start yelling, running away from an overly-excited Ramos. He watches in amusement, shaking his head. “They’re like children,” he murmurs, watching as they disappear from sight, headed for who knows where.

“There are no children in here,” the blond man says then, sounding disgusted, cutting through Neymar’s thoughts.

Neymar bites his lip in embarrassment, turning to look at the man in surprise. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Messi had called this man ‘the German,’ and Neymar knows nothing else about him. The silence builds then, with Neymar unable to find a response and the man unwilling to say anything more.

Then Messi finally lets go of his wrist and takes a step forward. Neymar finds himself sliding his fingers down his arm, touching where Messi had been holding him, oddly uncomfortable with the way his skin is burning.

“Neymar is fascinated with the work you did on my arm,” Messi says, ignoring the way Neymar jerks in surprise behind him. “I’d like you to give him whatever he likes.”

The blond man straightens to his full height, crossing his arms as he mulls that over. “I have some time tonight,” he says. "And enough ink if it is something small." Then he holds out a hand. Neymar expects Messi to give the man an envelope like Ramos had. But instead, Messi merely slaps the man’s hand. The blond man nods in response.

Messi turns around to face Neymar again. "Whatever you like," he repeats, eyes meeting Neymar's. "Mats will take care of you."

"Who?" Neymar asks dumbly, still trying to wrap his head around what's going on. Honestly, he’s a little thrown that Messi has noticed him looking at the ink on his arm.

And desperately hoping that Messi hasn’t notice the *other* places Neymar’s been looking…

"I am Mats," the blond man rumbles from behind Messi. He still doesn't smile, and he doesn't say anything else. Instead he sits down in his chair again and gestures toward the bunk. "Sit, and show me where you want it."

Neymar makes a noise in his throat. "But I," he starts, looking between Messi and Mats. Messi is looking back at him, stoic as always. "But why?!" he blurts out, still trying to understand what he has done to deserve this. "You don't owe me anything," he says helplessly, actually reaching out and touching Messi's arm. He feels Messi’s forearm tense and then relax. "And Dani--" he starts, shaking his head again as he remembers his cousin taking his favor.

Messi pulls his arm away instantly at that. "This is not about Alves," he says, repeating what he'd told Neymar in the hallway. “Fuck Alves. I don’t give a shit about Alves.” He leans closer to Neymar, eyes looking very dark. "This is because of what you did for Luis. Do you understand now?" he asks slowly, like Neymar is a child. "Are we clear?"

Neymar's fingers are tingling from where he'd touched Messi's skin. He ducks his chin so that he doesn't have to look Messi in the eyes anymore. "Yes," he says, even though he still has more questions.

Like always.

Messi sighs, obviously seeing Neymar’s distress. He tips Neymar's chin up with two fingers. “This is a reward." He waits until Neymar flicks his eyes up to meet his gaze. "You have said that you don’t want thanks, but I do not care." His fingers trail up Neymar's jaw like he's thinking. “The thing is, I don’t know what to do with you… There’s something…”

Neymar leans into his hand, blinking up at him.

Messi shakes his head. “I can’t think of many things that you would like, in here. But, I think this—you like tattoos—so you will like this. Mats does good work."

Neymar swallows. He wants to nod, wants to ask why Messi cares about making him happy. But Messi's voice and touch are strangely hypnotic, and Neymar stays quiet, lets Messi do what he wants.

The truth is he does like tattoos, and he’d especially liked Messi’s.

Messi smiles. "Not on the face," he says softly, and it takes Neymar a few seconds to realize that he's now talking about where Neymar's new tattoo should go. "No, not on the face," Messi continues, smoothing his fingers back down Neymar's jaw and then running them down Neymar's throat. "But, maybe," he says, stroking a thumb gently towards Neymar's neck, "maybe here."

Neymar shivers. He desperately tries not to think of Messi’s hands continuing down his body.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Fuck.

“Black? Color?" Mats asks from behind them.

Messi drops his hand from Neymar's neck, taking a step back. "Neymar can decide," he says, shrugging as if he's finished making decisions. He stares at Neymar for a moment longer and then turns to leave. “I’ll send someone for him in a bit,” he adds over his shoulder, passing Neymar and heading for the doorway.

Neymar licks his lips. "You're just going to leave me here?" he asks, a flicker of fear curling through him. He tries not to show his panic, but at the same time tries not to offend the strange blond man he's just met. For some reason, he feels oddly safe while Messi is there, and that’s not something he is used to thinking. “I mean, is that—is that okay?"

Perhaps some fear leaks into his voice, though, because Mats coughs. "You do not have to worry," he says gruffly, drawing Neymar’s attention. "Nobody messes with me. Not anymore." He gestures again toward the bed, this time not seeming so unfriendly. "Come, tell me what you would like. I am very good at what I do."

Neymar looks back to the doorway.

Messi is standing there, watching him. He raises an eyebrow, waiting to see what Neymar will do.

Neymar sucks in a shaky breath and then timidly walks over to the bed. Mats pats the bunk a few times, looking at him expectantly, so Neymar plops down.

When Neymar next looks over at the doorway, Messi is gone.

Mats and Neymar sit in silence for a minute, with Neymar's eyes darting around the cell nervously. Mats merely waits. Finally, Neymar clears his throat. "I'm Neymar," he says, putting out a hand.

The tattoo artist looks down at his hand and then blinks, reaching to greet him. "I am the German. Marc-André ter Stegen," he says formally, pronouncing each name like he is out of the habit of doing so. "But you will call me Mats." He releases Neymar's hand and then pulls over his box with all the little bottles of ink. "Now, Neymar," he says, setting the box closer to them. "What can I do for you tonight?"

Neymar sighs, looking down at the bottles. "I didn't know I was coming here," he says, reaching towards them to finger the brilliant red and blue and yellow when Mats makes no move to stop him. Some of them appear to be nearly empty. There are also more black bottles than any other color and Neymar taps the tops of them. "I didn't even know I could get a tattoo in prison."

Mats makes a sound of understanding. "There are not many artists here, this is true," he says. "And even fewer with the tools that I have." He gestures towards his needles and other supplies. "But I am given certain privileges, and I have even tattooed many of the guards. That is why I am allowed to continue in such a way."

"And is that why you said nobody bothers you?" Neymar asks innocently. He bites his tongue when he sees how the question makes Mats' forehead creases in annoyance. "Sorry," he says quickly. "I'm sorry." The last thing he wants to do is piss off the man who's going to be drawing on his body. "I just meant, I'm surprised you're allowed."

Mats frowns, but he shakes his head. "I am allowed because I am allowed. And nobody bothers me because I am the German. I am from Möchengladbach." He says it like it means something, but Neymar is still clueless.

"The German," Neymar repeats cautiously. “The only German? I had heard that there were more... but they got transferred out, I think?"

Mats looks at him appraisingly, like he’s not sure how much information to share. "Yes," he eventually says, apparently deciding that Neymar means no harm. "There were many once. Many and powerful." Then he shrugs. "Messi got rid of them."

Neymar pauses, hand on top of one of the bottles of black ink. "He killed them? All of them?"

Mats smiles then, showing brilliant white teeth. They’re perfectly straight, without a single flaw. "No," he says, shaking his head in amusement. "But Messi… He knows people, knows people on the inside, on the outside—people in power. And he did not like the Germans." His smile turns strange. "So he got rid of them, got rid of the ones that he did not like.”

Then Mats shrugs. “The ones that were still alive, that is.“

"And now you are the only one left," Neymar says, bringing his hand back toward his lap, trying not to think too much of how many people Messi must have killed. ”So, I guess, Messi likes you?" he asks, trying to focus on Mats. He's not sure how he feels about that—the idea that Messi likes this man for some reason. He wants to know more about Mats, more about why Messi decided he was worth keeping around. "Because of your tattooing talents? Or…?“

Mats still has his strange smile. "That is one reason, yes," he says, not rising to Neymar’s bait. Then he waves his hand back toward the ink. "Anyways," he says, smile turning back to something normal as he turns the conversation back toward the tattoo. "Black, I think, for your skin at first. I have some colors that would really pop, but not enough for tonight. And so for the neck, and for my first on you, I think black." He pulls out a bottle of black and starts fiddling with his needle. "Have you been thinking of a design?"

Neymar folds his hands, some of his nervousness coming back. He's not sure why because he's been tattooed many times before and he's never really had a problem or had issues with the pain or anything. He remembers every tattoo he’s ever gotten, remembers thinking about them for hours and hours and trying to decide if they were right. But this tattoo... It makes him wonder. Because this is not just his first prison tattoo, but it's a tattoo that Messi has decided he needs. And it is, as Messi said, a reward.

Something that *means* something.

Well, they all mean something… Some more than most…

Neymar looks at Mats, feeling calmer all of a sudden as he sees the German's patience. "Not a design," he mumbles, thinking it through. "But, do you do words? Names? Or some simple phrases?”

Mats nods encouragingly. "I do those frequently,” he says, indicating it will not be a problem. “I have done Agüero’s, you must have seen his? And James’? You are friends with him, no?” He twists his lips. “And Alves’, of course. You certainly have seen my work there. And words are easy, should not take long unless you really want some kind of flourishing.”

Neymar takes a deep breath, Dani’s tattoos blurring in his mind. "Okay then," he says, a smile appearing before he knows it. "I'd like *Tudo Passa,*" he says, squeezing his hands together.

Mats simply nods again. "This is good," he praises. "And, on the neck?" he asks, motioning to where Messi had skimmed his fingers. "As Messi said?" He holds his thumb and first finger apart to indicate a size. “This big okay?”

In all actuality, Neymar is touched that Mats bothers to ask him. “Yes, and the neck is fine," he replies. He knows this is something he's going to carry with him for the rest of his life, like all of his previous tattoos. And even though he’s not had that much time to think about it, not like he did for his previous ones, somehow everything now seems perfect. "The neck is where I want it."

Mats gets to work, then.

He’s close to a professional, as it turns out. He knows exactly what he is doing, and despite not having all of the tools that a typical tattoo artist might have, he still uses new needles and keeps his things sanitary. He sketches the phrase out first, on a small piece of translucent paper, waiting for Neymar’s approval before he actually beginning the tattooing process. Things are relatively quiet while he works, with Neymar closing his eyes and trying to think of something other than the pain.

Thankfully, he has never gotten aroused by pain.

Unlike Ramos.

“You are making a name for yourself, here,” Mats eventually says, needle moving over Neymar’s neck. He draws slowly and methodically, dipping for new ink when he needs it. “Tattoos, I charge something for, but advice—I will give you that for free.” When Neymar doesn’t object, he continues. “Making a name for yourself… That is not necessarily wise.”

Neymar keeps his eyes shut and tries to hide his embarrassment. “Nobody’s ever called me wise,” he mumbles, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Nobody probably ever will. But I’m just trying to survive this. You know?” He thinks of Dani and then of Messi, wondering if he could have chosen another way. “And I’m trying not to piss anyone off. I don’t want to make waves at all.”

Mats hums above him. “Going by what I have heard about you, you are not succeeding,” he says. He pauses and wipes around his design before resuming his work. “Everybody knows what happened with Guardiola and his cronies. But, if you have Messi on your side now—if you are part of his crew,” he says thoughtfully, “you probably won’t get killed any time soon. And he must be on your side, if he is looking on you so favorably.”

Neymar winces. “I’m not sure he’s ‘on my side,’ but…” He trails off, not really sure how to characterize his relationship with Messi. They aren’t friends. Or cellmates.

Part of his crew might be the best way to describe it. For better or for worse.

Mats hums again. “Most people wouldn’t bother, you see. They care about themselves only, turn over their cellmates if they think it’ll help them get ahead. Loyalty is a hard thing to come by. But Messi is different… He’s had to be, to remain in power for such a long time. He has a way of doing things… He has a type of integrity that most people don’t understand.”

Neymar opens his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“He lives by a code. He never starts any trouble.” Mats reaches for a cloth to wipe away some of the ink. “Even with the Germans, he did not *start* anything.” His voice turns cold, though there’s mirth in his gaze and a smile starts playing around his lips. “He only finished it.”

Neymar almost chokes. “Never starts anything?!” he says incredulously. “Are you kidding?” He thinks back to the first day, the way Messi had slit Higuaín’s throat without any sign of remorse. “I don’t think you know anything about him,” he says, looking up at Mats, suddenly remembering that he doesn’t know anything about this man. For all he knows, Mats is trying to cause trouble.

Mats pauses, needle in his hand. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he shrugs. “I think *you* don’t know anything about him. Or me.” He laughs. “The advice is free,” he repeats. “But you don’t have to take it.” He bends down towards Neymar’s neck to continue, ignoring the way Neymar flinches. “Nobody ever called you wise,” he says mockingly, focusing again on the stretch of skin before him. “That mark on your face is evidence of that, no?”

They don’t really speak after that, despite a few attempts by Mats to resume the conversation. Neymar thinks that Mats is trying to apologize, trying to seem friendly, but it’s strained.

Lavezzi shows up a little while after that, taking the chair that Piqué had occupied earlier. He’s just in time, yawning as Mats finishes up. “How’d it turn out?” Lavezzi lazily calls, sitting in the doorway and chewing on his fingernails. He puts his feet up on the wall like Piqué but doesn’t rock the chair at all.

Mats bandages Neymar’s neck, leaning back to let Neymar sit up.

Neymar’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach to touch the area. “Good, I hope,” he mutters, standing up once Mats has gestured everything is good to go. He’s a little nervous that he didn’t get to see the end product, but without any mirrors around, it would be hard to get a good look.

Lavezzi laughs, scratching a hand through his beard. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says jumping to his feet. He claps a hand on Neymar’s shoulder, eyeing the bandage. “The German knows what he’s doing. It’s why we keep him around,” he says, grinning, though he says it in an odd tone of voice. He tips his head over towards Mats, still smiling. “Let me know when you got some good pink! I’m thinking of something good for my back.”

Mats nods. “Pink will cost more,” he says, looking intrigued. “But I can get it.”

Lavezzi waves a hand and drags Neymar out of the cell and into the hallway. People are starting to get in their way now, most of the crowd heading in the direction of the cafeteria. “So your first ink,” Lavezzi rumbles, steering them through the inmates. “I remember my first,” he says fondly. He pulls Neymar into his side as they go by Ronaldo and Coentrão. “You never forget your first.”

Neymar eyes Ronaldo uneasily, trying to ignore the way the other man stares at him. It seems that is all Ronaldo ever does around here, though since they’re indoors, the other man is not surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke. “It’s not my first,” Neymar replies turning his head. “I’ve gotten tattoos before, you know that.”

Lavezzi laughs again, seeming merry despite the events of the day. “Your first in here, obviously,” he says. He looks at a few of Neymar’s older tattoos—the treble, the tiger, the bible verses—before shaking his head. There are many hidden underneath Neymar’s clothes that he can’t see at the moment, but Neymar knows Lavezzi could have seen most of them when they stripped for the showers. “You never forget your first, eh? The way it feels? That pain and pleasure?”

His first?

Neymar’s not sure they’re talking about tattoos anymore, but he’s saved from answering as they reach the cafeteria.

Messi’s at his usual table, watching the entrance.

Neymar lets Lavezzi steer him towards the table, noting that Masche is sitting there too. Neymar drags his feet in response. He’s not really hungry, but whether that’s because he knows nothing will compare to that sandwich he had at lunch, or because he’s still thrown by his conversation with Mats, he’s not sure.

Actually, who the fuck is he kidding?

He’s unnerved by Messi, as always.

And no matter how much he tries to relax, he finds that he can’t. Because no matter what he does, everything comes back to Messi. The business with Guardiola, Luis, the Chileans, Ronaldo, the Germans… it all comes back to Messi.

Messi…

Messi with his dark hair and dark eyes and—

Neymar bites his tongue. He takes a deep breath and sits down at the table, trying to distract himself from the man sitting across from him.

Agüero’s already eating, trays in front of him and the others, though neither Messi nor Masche have picked up their utensils. Agüero doesn’t seem to mind them, and instead messily eats his mashed potatoes, ignoring the way the food splatters across the table. “What did you get?” he asks nosily, tilting his head towards Neymar’s bandage. “Something stupid, I bet.” The other Argentines join their table silently, Rojo sitting next to Agüero and Di María sitting next to Masche. Lavezzi shows up a minute later, placing a tray in front of Neymar.

Neymar half smiles in thanks, aimlessly stirring his spoon into his own potatoes. “Maybe,” he says, not wanting to really get into things. His cheek twinges and he reaches up to rub it, irritated. “I like it, though,” he adds, dropping his eyes when Messi’s head swings towards him.

Agüero opens his mouth to say something else, but Messi beats him to it.

“Good,” Messi says simply, his quiet, slurry voice somehow sounding much louder than normal.

Neymar raises his eyes in time to see Agüero shut his mouth with a click, looking disgruntled. And then he watches, fascinated, as Agüero flicks his eyes over to Rojo and the two of them have some sort of silent conversation. But neither one of them say anything out loud, and Neymar bites his lip to hide his smile.

Messi doesn’t say anything more, either, piercing gaze turning to look around the room, but Neymar suddenly feels a bit lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably didn't answer many questions there... and maybe was misleading with the title (or was I??!!) but leading up to some big things!
> 
> (I owe so many comments on other fics, I'm sorry! Lost some time, trying to catch up.)


	16. Of Course We Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’ll do it when he can move better,” Messi repeats, still showing no sign of being bothered. “Otherwise he’ll get caught, he’ll be fucked, and then you’re fucked,” he adds, shrugging. He picks his fork up again and starts to eat. Beside him, Agüero is beginning to sit up straight in an attempt to make himself look bigger. “I said he would, didn’t I?” Messi adds, taking another bite of his chicken.
> 
> Dani clucks his tongue. “You did,” he says, starting to get singsongy. “You did, you did, you did.” He grins at Agüero and wiggles his eyebrows like he wants to taunt him. And *then* he looks at Neymar. “But I’m starting to think you got the better end of the deal… I even gave you a little something extra,” he says, staring at Neymar. “Something to sweeten the deal. And what do I have to show for it?”
> 
> Neymar can feel his gaze, but he keeps his eyes on his plate and doesn’t react. He’s not going to react. He’s going to continue to eat and stay calm just like everyone else. There’s one pea left and he keeps nudging it with his fork, watching it roll around like a little ball. Inside he’s screaming because he still has hope. He shouldn’t, but he does—still thinks Dani will take him back.

After dinner, Neymar follows the others back to Messi’s cell.

Luis is still flat on his back on the bunk where they left him, but his eyes are open now. He looks more like his normal self and seems mostly aware of his surroundings, as he blinks at Neymar and says, “I’m glad you’re okay.” He grimaces, bracing his side with his hand, and then sits up so that he’s no longer sideways on the bed. Some of his bandages peek out from underneath his shirt.

Neymar hopes his pain medication hasn’t worn off already.

“I’m sorry,” Luis says, ignoring the chatter from Agüero and Rojo over by the door. “I don’t, um, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I remember Guardiola before I zoned out.” His gaze flicks up to Neymar’s face and then his neck. “Is that the worst of it?”

Neymar coughs awkwardly, suddenly reminded that Luis remembering the Chileans would have really gotten him into deep shit. “Yes,” he says, rubbing his cheek. It still stings a bit. “And I should be the one who’s sorry. This was all because of me.” He carefully moves around Lavezzi and Di María so that he can go get closer to Luis. “Thank you for trying to protect me.”

Maybe Luis isn’t that alert after all because he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

At least he isn’t growling or anything.

Neymar hovers over him, a little concerned, eventually placing his hand on Luis’ shoulder and rubbing it slightly. He doesn’t know how else to comfort him. “Did you eat?” he asks, even though he’s sure Luis didn’t. “I’m sure I can find you something,” he starts to say, trailing off as he realizes he doesn’t really know how he would go about doing that.

“Can’t eat with the drugs,” Agüero butts in, seemingly unconcerned. He goes over to hop up on the desk. “Tough luck.”

Luis ignores Agüero, even as Neymar opens his mouth to say something that would probably invite trouble. “I’m not hungry, Ney,” Luis says, still holding his hand against his chest. He makes a little sound of pain. “I just ache. And breathing is kinda difficult.” His eyes slit open to peer at Neymar again. “But you’re okay?”

Neymar throws up his hands, unable to believe Luis is concerned about him when he was the one who got the shit kicked out of him. He carefully crawls onto the bed next to Luis. “Just got my face,” he says. “They were more interested in beating you than me.” He is careful as he shifts over to lean his side against Luis’. “I think they just wanted to scare me.”

Luis sighs, or tries to, the deep breath turning into a short inhalation at the agony from his ribs. “Fuckers,” he mutters. His other hand comes up and motions at his own neck. “And there?” he asks, closing his eyes again like he’s trying to hide how much the action pained him.

“Oh!” Neymar says, having forgotten. “A new tattoo.” His fingers play with the bandage, but he leaves it on. “Messi took me to see Mats,” he explains, his eyes flicking back across the cell to where Messi and Masche are talking. Neither seems to care about Neymar’s conversation, focusing on their own issues as Messi starts frowning at whatever Masche is telling him. The others don’t seem interested either, with Rojo joining Agüero atop the desk, and Di María and Lavezzi having disappeared altogether.

Luis opens his eyes again. He looks curiously at Neymar’s neck and then flicks his gaze across the room. “Oh, yeah?” he asks, like he’s surprised, tilting his head slightly. “Can’t wait to see it.”

Raised voices draw their attention then, and Neymar lets a sigh hiss between his teeth as Ronaldo pushes through a protesting Lavezzi and Di María and struts into the cell like it’s his own.

In all the fuss, Neymar had almost forgotten about Messi and Ronaldo’s strange relationship, but he’s immediately reminded of it as Messi’s furrowed brows seem to relax. Ronaldo grins at everyone, leisurely looking around as Agüero and Rojo jump to their feet. “Bit crowded in here, Leo,” Ronaldo says, brushing his hand on his shirt and then holding it up in front of him to inspect his nails.

Messi’s eyes sweep over him, and then he turns his back and walks unhurriedly to the desk. Agüero slides to the side instantly to let him pass, watching as he takes his usual place on its surface. “Is it?” Messi asks, shrugging, ignoring the way a few things on the desk seem to crinkle beneath him.

All of a sudden, Luis’ nails start to dig into Neymar’s leg, and Neymar has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. But then Messi’s voice gets very soft, and Neymar understands that something important is happening.

“You’re late,” Messi says. He doesn’t lean back on his hands like he normally does. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands over each other slowly.

Even Neymar can see that his body language is not welcoming.

Ronaldo can clearly see it too. He straightens, immediately losing that casual, unconcerned stance. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he asks, grin changing to something a little more dangerous. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He takes a step forward, ignoring the way that Agüero is practically vibrating in front of him. “It’s always about what you want, isn’t it?” Ronaldo throws out, almost challengingly, when there’s no immediate reply.

There’s a strange silence in the cell then, and Neymar’s afraid to breathe. Luis’ nails are still digging into his leg and Neymar tries to pry them out without drawing attention. He wonders if he’s bleeding through his pants.

Messi hums then, like he’s deciding what he wants, his eyes never leaving Ronaldo. He tilts his head back slightly into the shadows. A piece of hair falls down across his forehead. After a moment, he smiles. “Is it?” he asks quietly.

It’s not the smile he’d given Ronaldo the previous night. It’s nothing close to that kind of smile.

Ronaldo’s hands clench into fists down by his sides. “Don’t fuck around,” he says, taking another step towards Messi, getting as close as he can without actually touching Agüero and Rojo who are both still standing there like guard dogs. “Not with me,” he says firmly. “You can try that shit with any of your little cronies, here, but you don’t get to do that with me.” His voice loses its anger, but it’s still insistent.

Messi shrugs again, unbothered. “You’re late,” he repeats. But he does lean back on his hands now, into somewhat of a normal position, and whatever tension that was building between them seems to dissipate. “I get to do whatever I want,” he says matter-of-factly.

Luis exhales, squeezing Neymar’s leg in apology while Neymar silently swats his hand away.

Messi sends the rest of them out after that, waving his hand at Masche and the others and ignoring the way Agüero tries to protest and stay behind. Clearly, nobody wants to leave Messi alone with Ronaldo, either because they think he’s a threat, or because they think Messi is giving in too easily.

But they all go.

Neymar goes too when Messi looks over at him and Luis and tilts his head toward the door. Neymar rises quickly, a hand under Luis’ elbow, helping his friend get to his feet so that they can both return to their own cells for the night. It’s nearly lights out anyway. Once they’re in the hallway, he chances a look back.

He’s just in time to see Ronaldo step into the space between Messi’s legs. To see the way Ronaldo strokes a hand through Messi’s hair.

It doesn’t make any sense.

*****

Neymar doesn’t learn anything more about Messi and Ronaldo in the next few weeks, but that doesn’t mean he gets used to whatever it is that seems to be going on between them. Every night Ronaldo comes in, spends some… intimate time with Messi, and then leaves. From what Neymar can tell, it only ever involves an intense make-out session and maybe, on occasion, some heavy petting. It never goes further than that.

Sometimes Neymar’s allowed to stay.

(Luis is too, because somehow neither of them are a threat? Or else because Messi wants to make a point to Ronaldo? Messi doesn’t bother to explain. He either tells them to get out or doesn’t bother to tell them anything.)

Sometimes Neymar wishes that weren’t the case.

He doesn’t need to see the way Ronaldo’s fingers dip into Messi’s waistband, or the way they slide up Messi’s thin t-shirt to reveal a strip of tantalizing skin. He doesn’t need to see the way Messi arches against Ronaldo, spreading his thighs as hands palm his ass… Fuck… Neymar tries not to watch, but ever since that moment in the showers—when he realized that he *wanted* Messi—he’s been drawn to Messi’s body. He’s secretly looked over at Messi through his lashes more than once.

Too many times.

So yes, Neymar wishes that Messi would tell him to leave when he wants to make out with Ronaldo.

But other than that, Neymar can’t complain about the way things have been going. Because things are getting increasingly better for him. He’s settled into a routine again, and it’s something of a relief. Things are different now. And he’s not sure what *exactly* sparked the changes, but mostly everyone seems to be warming up to him.

Masche… That man’s a lost cause, Neymar’s pretty sure. He’s never gonna win him over. If they can make it through a day without Masche glaring at him, Neymar considers that a win. End of story. But the others?

Lavezzi was already pretty easygoing and now doesn’t seem to hide that he’s okay with Neymar being with their group. He approves of Neymar’s tattoo—there’s a hint of a smile playing around his lips when he sees it for the first time—and even asks for advice about the piece he’s planning for his back. The two of them walk in the halls more and more together, and Neymar grows to like Lavezzi’s crass sense of humor. Though, Lavezzi really does talk about his dick a little too much.

Di María is still wary of Neymar, but at least he isn’t so dismissive anymore. He even plays some card games with Neymar during their downtime. Neymar loses the first game 4-0, which results in Di María being overly condescending for a couple of days. But then, after a little of advice from Lavezzi, Neymar manages to win 6-1 the next time they play. He’s going to treasure the grudging look of respect on Di María’s face for days to come.

Rojo, it turns out, is wickedly funny. Whenever he’s next to Neymar he’s bitching about something or another, gossiping and telling Neymar all sorts of things about every single inmate. (“Zlatan forgot to talk in the third person one time and nearly caused a riot because the guards thought he was planning something… Alexis once tried to escape but found an injured rabbit and came back so he could sneak it food.”) Rojo’s favorite person to pick on is Agüero, which Neymar finds deeply satisfying, especially since Rojo isn’t so quiet when he’s calling the other man a stupid cow.

Agüero, who usually looks murderous, is a bit of a wild card. One minute he’s by Messi’s side, grinning maniacally, baring his teeth at Neymar for even daring to be in the same vicinity, and the next minute he’s smiling placidly at Rojo or Lavezzi. (Usually Rojo, despite the insults… And Neymar really can’t figure out why.) Neymar tries to stay out of his way, knowing that to interact with him will probably lead to his imminent death. But then, one day in the yard, things get a little wild and one of the Uruguayans tries to punch Neymar for simply existing.

Neymar squares up, but it’s completely obvious he’s about to get his ass kicked. From what the other guy (Godin?) is saying, Neymar suddenly realizes it has more to do with him being buddy-buddy with Luis than anything else. Neymar makes it worse by continuing to blurt out, “He’s my friend! Who cares?!” while the man scowls. A circle starts to form around them and Neymar throws a few punches wildly. It soon becomes clear that he’s going to lose the battle. Eventually, he stumbles, closes his eyes, and waits for a fist to connect with his face.

Except it never happens.

Suddenly Agüero is there, snarling for his attacker to back off. Neymar watches in disbelief as Agüero steps entirely in front of him, fully intent on taking any of the punches coming his way. And Neymar has to wonder if he’s hallucinating, because he was pretty sure Agüero had been on the opposite side of the yard next to Rojo when things started getting heated. The fight dies down after that, turning into a bunch of grown men throwing around insults and threats instead of trying to pummel each other to death.

Agüero might be short, but he’s crazy as fuck, and nobody really wants to fight anymore once he gets involved. When everything’s calmed down, Neymar tries to thank him. But Agüero’s shifty grin appears for a second before he says, “Shut up,” and crosses the yard again to return to Rojo. Neymar’s left speechless.

While everyone’s been changing around him, there’s one person who hasn’t: Luis.

Luis is absolutely his friend. He’s kept his word, and tells Neymar anything he wants to know: “Don’t eat that,” “Avoid those corridors,” “That guard is handsy.” He’s definitely stronger than Neymar could ever be, because he ignores the way people look down on him, or the way people call him ‘the cannibal’ to his face. Hell, the other Uruguayans won’t have anything to do with him, which is why he rolls with the Argentines. Neymar’s selfishly not sorry about that because without Luis, he’s not sure he would have made it. Any time Neymar’s unsure of something, Luis is by his side. As the weeks go by, Neymar grows to trust him more than anyone else.

In a way, Luis reminds him of Rafa. He’s quick to smile, quick to pull Neymar out of the way when he senses a conflict, and also goes out of his way to make Neymar feel better when he’s feeling down. He’s a friend. Hell, he’s Neymar’s best friend.

The only problem is, just as Rafa’s first loyalty was to Dani, Luis’ first loyalty is to Messi.

And while Messi hasn’t always kicked Neymar out when Ronaldo enters his cell, Messi has always dismissed him when he wants private time with *Luis*. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes Messi will collapse on his back on the bunk and put an arm over his eyes. Neymar has learned not to speak during these times, because Messi’s usually quietly seething over something or another. Messi doesn’t scream or throw things, and if it weren’t for the way his knuckles turn white while his other hand is squeezing at the sheets, Neymar wouldn’t even know that Messi was irritated. But then sometimes Messi will say, “Neymar, take a walk,” anger coloring his words like he’s about to explode, and Neymar will get to his feet at once.

Luis stays during those times.

Neymar doesn’t know exactly what happens, but he can guess. Later, or the next day even, Neymar will see marks on Luis’ neck. And Messi will be walking around like the tension has disappeared from his body.

Neymar’s not jealous. Why would he be? (Okay, maybe he’s slightly jealous… Just a tiny bit…)

He’s just reminded again, of what he already knew. Luis is Messi’s. And Messi’s relationship with Luis is not something Neymar totally understands. But again, Luis’ first loyalty is to Messi. For that matter, everyone’s first loyalties are to Messi. And that’s something Neymar tries not to forget. No matter how much things seem to be getting better, he tries to remember that he needs to look out for himself.

But Messi…

There’s still some sort of strange electricity that crackles through the air when their eyes meet. Because occasionally, Messi looks at Neymar intently. Truthfully, it happens everywhere—in the yard, in their cells, in the cafeteria. Messi doesn’t make a secret out of it.

It’s so unlike Neymar’s own furtive glances.

But Neymar is never prepared for it. He freezes wherever he is, fork moving to his mouth, or hand holding his tray. The conversation fizzles out around him, voices running together until he can’t hear a single thing except for his own heartbeat. Every time, it’s like Messi is staring deep into his soul, learning things that Neymar doesn’t even know about himself. There’s still a hint of danger when that happens, when half of Neymar’s brain shouts that this man is a threat, he’s dangerous, watch out, be careful…

But then there’s the other side of Neymar’s brain. The side that recalls the way Messi had touched his face, the way Messi’s fingers had stroked through his hair and then smoothed down his neck. The side that remembers watching Messi carefully clean the blood off of Luis’ head… That part whispers that there’s kindness there, he smiled at you, gave you a tattoo, said *you’re his*.

Messi’s not a particularly warm person, but there’s *something* there.

Almost without trying, Messi includes Neymar more in the group conversation. Rather, through a few subtle looks or stares, he manages to have the others talk to Neymar. But he does indicate for Neymar to sit next to him in the cafeteria, and he’s also had them sit together down in the workroom. Their shoulders have brushed together more than once, each time sending a shiver up Neymar’s spine. But if anything, the others start embracing Neymar because of Messi’s behavior.

It’s all still very strange, but Neymar is not going to complain about it since it’s leading to his acceptance in the group. (It’s leading to something else too, maybe, but he’s not sure what to do about that… Or if he’s reading the signs right. Time will tell. And he’s not sure what he will do if he’s right.) He likes having a group, likes feeling as if he belongs somewhere. He’s never alone (except at lights out), and for the first time, he feels as if maybe he will be able to get through this.

It’s like the way it was with Dani and the Brazilians.

Before.

He still sees them every once in awhile. Mostly in the cafeteria or out in the yard. Dani still wears his crazy sunglasses and remains surrounded by his entourage. Sometimes he’s shirtless, and sometimes he’s not, flaunting the rules and almost begging the guards to confront him. Rafa sits by his side happily chatting with Marcelo, while Casemiro and Lucas loom around them menacingly. And Douglas and Adriano bicker while running here and there. Nothing seems to have changed. They continue on with their lives as if Neymar was never part of theirs.

Neymar doesn’t know how to feel about that.

And then Dani approaches their table one day at lunch, chewing on the end of his glasses. They’re black and white today, with zebra-like stripes. His eyes flick around the table, jumping from face to face, glaring at Agüero and Masche, but skipping Neymar’s entirely. He looks disgusted as he turns his head to see Luis. Then his gaze settles on Messi and he smiles. “Your cannibal hasn’t done what I wanted,” he says pleasantly, mumbling. The plastic clacks against his teeth. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Messi sets his fork down. “He’ll do it when he’s recovered,” he says calmly, not even looking at where Luis sitting next to Neymar. “You’re aware of the circumstances, no? But don’t worry, he’ll do it.”

Dani chews on his glasses some more, tilting his head back and forth like he’s mulling that over.

Neymar grits his teeth, wanting to say so many things but knowing it will only cause trouble. Instead, he tries to behave, swallowing a forkful of disgusting-tasting peas and then washing them down with his water. He focuses on his tray in front of him, ignoring the way his hand is shaking as he tries to spear a few more of the mushy peas.

Under the table, Luis pats his leg, utterly unworried.

“Cannibals have to be cannibals,” Dani continues nonsensically. “Have to do their cannibal jobs. Otherwise, what else are they good for, hmm?” He pulls his glasses out of his mouth so that he can wave them around. “Not much, I would say.” He bites the air a few times like he enjoys the sound of his teeth clicking. “Not much indeedy.”

“He’ll do it when he can move better,” Messi repeats, still showing no sign of being bothered. “Otherwise he’ll get caught, he’ll be fucked, and then you’re fucked,” he adds, shrugging. He picks his fork up again and starts to eat. Beside him, Agüero is beginning to sit up straight in an attempt to make himself look bigger. “I said he would, didn’t I?” Messi adds, taking another bite of his chicken.

Dani clucks his tongue. “You did,” he says, starting to get singsongy. “You did, you did, you did.” He grins at Agüero and wiggles his eyebrows like he wants to taunt him. And *then* he looks at Neymar. “But I’m starting to think you got the better end of the deal… I even gave you a little something extra,” he says, staring at Neymar. “Something to sweeten the deal. And what do I have to show for it?”

Neymar can feel his gaze, but he keeps his eyes on his plate and doesn’t react. He’s not going to react. He’s going to continue to eat and stay calm just like everyone else. There’s one pea left and he keeps nudging it with his fork, watching it roll around like a little ball. Inside he’s screaming because he still has hope. He shouldn’t, but he does—still thinks Dani will take him back.

“The deal is done,” Messi says sharply, almost daring Dani to challenge him.

There’s silence after that, and Neymar peeks up to see Dani shifting from foot to foot. And then Neymar’s heart sinks. Because Dani grins and shrugs.

“Alright,” Dani says, like it doesn’t mean anything. Like *Neymar* doesn’t mean anything. And then Dani turns on his heel and walks back to his table, chewing on his glasses as he goes.

Neymar watches him go until his sight starts to blur. Then he looks back down at his plate and spears the last pea.

*****

“I just thought,” Neymar says that night when he and Luis are lounging around in Messi’s cell before lights out, “that Dani was on my side. I thought he cared about me.”

He’s been with the Argentines for about a month now and he feels rather comfortable approaching this subject. He’s talked a little bit about Dani with Luis before, here and there, but never to this extent. They’re both sprawled out on the mattress as is their habit before turning in for the night. The others have been in and out of the cell, but now only Messi is there with them and he’s busy writing at his desk—doing whatever it is he does every night—and not paying any attention.

Neymar folds his hands across his stomach and stares up at the bottom of the top bunk. There are a couple of initials carved into the metal, but they’re too hard to decipher in the cell’s dim light. “We’re family,” he says quietly, feeling the way Luis sighs next to him. “That’s always been a big thing for us. You don’t turn on your family.”

Luis shifts and the bed creaks. “Your priorities can change,” he starts to say, obviously looking for the right words but not wanting to hurt Neymar’s feelings. “And Alves is,” he begins, pausing like he’s really trying to be delicate.

Neymar shakes his head and turns on his side to face him. “I know he’s not the same guy I knew when I was a kid,” he admits, trying not to remember all the good times he’d had as a child with Dani—the laughs, the pranks, the running around in the streets with a half-deflated football they’d nicked from the school gym. “But in our family, it didn’t mean anything when he went away to prison. He was still my cousin, still my family. And I never thought he’d just give me up like that. For nothing.”

“Family doesn’t mean everything, Ney,” Luis says, pressing a hand to his ribs. They’re still healing and obviously paining him, but he’s very careful never to complain about them.

“It does for us!” Neymar insists. “You protect your family! You do whatever you have to keep them safe. That’s why I—,” he chokes out, closing his eyes. He’s still emotional from everything with Dani and it’s making him remember things he wishes he didn’t. This is the moment. It’s now or never, and he’s held it all inside for far too long. He can feel Luis touch his arm, and it gives him courage. “That’s why I’m even here,” he whispers, finally needing to say it out loud. “In prison. It wasn’t my fault—what happened… My dad, he told me…”

It had happened all so quickly. There had been arguing—his father and Señor Santos had been fighting about money—and it had gotten out of hand. Even now, Neymar doesn’t remember hearing the shots. He just remembers seeing Santos fall to the ground and go still. He hadn’t understood, had stood there blinking. But he remembers the way his dad had grabbed him by the shoulders and sworn him to secrecy. Neymar had been in shock, barely able to focus as his father then pressed the gun into his hand.

There had been so much blood on the floor.

Luis’ hand rubs his arm and then wraps around his waist to pull him closer. “It’s alright,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to say it.”

Neymar keeps his eyes closed. “I took the fall,” he confesses for the very first time. “Maybe not for my dad, but for my mom, and my sister, because they wouldn’t have survived otherwise.” He can’t say any more about that. His heart is still trying to thrum out of his chest and he bites his lip to keep in a scream. Some sort of nervous panic is starting to come over him, and he’s not sure he can hold in his hysteria.

Luis’ breath tickles his face. “I understand,” he says.

Neymar shakes his head. “Do you?” he asks, practically vibrating, squeezing this eyes tighter. “How can you?” He knows that Luis really is a murderer, really did kill a handful of people and probably would do it again. “How can you know how I feel? I didn’t do it. It wasn’t the same for you,” he says sadly, not trying to be mean, but trying to make Luis understand.

Luis is quiet for a moment but then he reaches over and hugs Neymar.

Neymar exhales, deciding whether or not to fight the embrace. But then he gives in, lets himself completely relax. He trusts Luis.

“I understand wanting to protect the ones you love,” Luis says slowly. “And I understand wanting to do anything to keep them safe. *Anything*.” His voice is muffled into Neymar’s shoulder. “Isn’t that enough?” The hand on Neymar’s waist moves to rub his back, trying to calm him down.

Neymar sighs. “I never told anybody before. Not even my sister, in case they asked her. I kept my mouth shut, didn't squeal, didn't betray my father even when the prosecutors told me I was an idiot. I said I did it, said it was obvious my fingerprints were on the gun.”

He remembers the look on his sister's face, how she’d cried in the courtroom—each painful sob like a dagger to his heart—and curled into his mother’s arms while the makeup ran down her cheeks in rivulets. It had stained Rafaella’s beautiful white dress—the one he’d gotten for her for her birthday, the one he’d saved and saved until he could afford it.

“And when I got here…” Neymar hesitates as he tries to think back. Everything had been cold and gray, dirty walls and dingy cells, and stern guards shoving him this way and that. It’s over two months later now, and things are still just as dark. “I wasn’t sure how I would be treated—if people knew I was innocent… Or even if it could get back to the courts.” He’d wanted to tell Dani. But Dani had been so twitchy that Neymar had held back.

Maybe it’s better that he had.

“Did you think we didn’t really know, though?” Luis asks then, startling Neymar. He rests his head on two pillows they’d stacked on the bed. "That you were innocent?"

Neymar opens his eyes, blinking in astonishment at his friend. “What?” he asks dumbly, fingers curling nervously in Luis’ shirt. “What do you mean?” He pulls on Luis’ sleeve, revealing the thick black lines of tattoos on his bicep. “How?”

Luis just looks back at him, a few shadows underneath his eyes. “Of course we knew, Ney. Maybe not at first, but we found out pretty quickly.” He smiles at Neymar a little, like he would at a child, and Neymar finds himself speechless.

“He’s right,” a voice says then, and Neymar jerks away from Luis to look over his shoulder.

Messi’s staring back at him, still sitting in the chair over by the desk, but attention directly on Neymar. “I told you before. Didn’t I? That I make it my business to know things,” he says quietly. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out?” He arches an eyebrow questioningly, twirling a pencil around in his hand. “I needed to know who you were. What you’d done. Whether or not you could be trusted.” He shrugs. “It was obvious from your case files that you were innocent. And despite what they might have said to you, your lawyers were fucking shits who were all too happy to put you away.”

Neymar gapes at him.

And then he falls off the bed.

“Ney? Are you okay?” Luis asks, raising his head, trying to lean over the side to peer down at him curiously. He can’t quite manage it, unable to shuffle over very gracefully without jarring his ribs. “What the hell, man?”

"Ow," Neymar mumbles, rubbing his elbow and feeling the cold from the floor seep into his bones. Truly, the bottom bunk is barely above the ground, so his pride is hurt more than anything. Above him, Luis begins snickering slightly, but it's Messi's laugh that catches Neymar's attention.

It’s soft, almost like Messi’s out of practice.

And as Neymar stares at him in wonder, he realizes that yes, that’s exactly it. Messi’s laughing as if he’s surprised by it, as if he hasn’t laughed in years and he doesn’t know how. It’s a sort of silly little gasping, over and over as Messi rubs his face with his hand and then turns away from Neymar and Luis in an effort to hide what’s happened. And then he starts coughing loudly.

Neymar looks back at Luis in astonishment, unsure if this is the norm.

Luis, however, looks delighted. “Leo,” he says, resting his chin on his hand. “Are *you* alright?”

Messi eventually stops coughing. “Shut up,” he says, but it’s without any sort of venom and comes out fondly with a slight smile. He opens his mouth to say something else, but just then Ronaldo appears in the doorway and his amusement disappears. “It’s getting late,” Messi says then, and it’s obvious it’s not what he was going to say before.

He tilts his head toward the door.

Neymar bites his lip, but gets to his feet and then bends down to help Luis up again. It’s never an easy process to get up without causing any pain.

The levity has evaporated and the cell is quiet now, with Ronaldo waiting for them to leave before saying anything. He looks annoyed tonight and folds his arms as if he’s even more annoyed that they’re so slow to move. His foot even begins to tap against the floor, and it sounds like he says, “Any day now,” under his breath.

Neymar usually averts his eyes and tries not to get in the other man’s way, but this time Neymar stares at him curiously. And as he and Luis round the corner, losing sight of the other two, he can’t help but wonder if Ronaldo has ever seen Messi laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took awhile. My work schedule changed at the beginning of May and it's been tough to find time to write. Hope this chapter makes up for it, especially with its revelations about Neymar. 
> 
> Who guessed correctly??? And what do you think is going to happen next???
> 
> (P.S. I also trimmed some character tags.)


	17. Sentimental Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You could spend some more time here, you know," James says, raising his hands above his head. He begins to move his hands and wrists around each other, gracefully starting to arch his neck and back as the beat picks up. "You like to dance, and I could use some company." He winks at Neymar, moving elegantly. And then he begins sashaying forward.
> 
> This time, Neymar thinks James is trying to start something.
> 
> "I, um," he says, feeling flattered, and truly not wanting to offend James. Or get in trouble with Ronaldo. "I'm not sure Messi would like that," he eventually says. "I'm not really supposed to be here, now, anyways. I'm dawdling," he says, taking a step back, smiling. "Just gotta take a whiz, and then I'm going back to the yard. And then work, obviously.”
> 
> At that, James drops his coaxing smile. "Messi," he spits out, frowning. "You were better off with Dani. He at least would take care of you, eh?" He looks sullenly at Neymar as if he’s disappointed. “I’m sorry I helped Dani now.”

Lavezzi comes to fetch him one morning instead of Rojo. 

"Oh, he's fighting about something or another with Agüero again," Lavezzi says, looking around Neymar's cell curiously. "It never ends with those two. You know how it is." He watches as Neymar slips on his shoes and splashes a little water on his face. "Don't have much stuff in here, do you," he says, though it's not so much a question as it is an observation.

Neymar dries his face on his shirt, so used to doing it by now that he doesn’t really care that he flashes Lavezzi. "Um," he says, looking around at his room. It's true he's not really made himself at home. He has a desk like everybody else, but the top of it isn’t decorated or anything. He doesn’t have any pictures, and his bed only has the pillow and blanket he was given when he arrived three months ago. The shelf by the window has his towel for the shower and meager bar of soap, while the closet contains a few additional sets of clothing. He can see Lavezzi's point. "Should I have more stuff?”

Lavezzi shrugs. "It's up to you. I mean, if I didn't have a roommate I'd take over the whole room. Really spread out and enjoy it.” He makes a face. “If you like reading shit, you get books from the library?” he suggests like he’s trying to figure out what Neymar would like. “Or you can buy more stuff, at the store, you know? Some snacks, cards, other miscellaneous shit.” He walks over to Neymar's desk, opening the drawers and then closing them when he sees there's nothing inside. "Even paper, stamps, if you want to write letters home, or whatever. I mean, the guards read it, but it’ll still go out.”

Neymar bites his lip. "I don't have any money to buy anything," he says, though the idea of writing to his sister regularly is quite tempting. Maybe Luis will let him borrow some stuff… 

Lavezzi stares at him and then shakes his head and gestures for Neymar to follow. "You get money for your work," he says, though he clearly wants to say that Neymar's an idiot. They stroll through the hallway on their way to breakfast, carefully moving around a wildly gesticulating Ramos and Alba. "You've been here, what? Three months almost?” Lavezzi says as they dodge Piqué, who is rapidly approaching with Xavi and Iker. “It would have been credited to your account."

Neymar sighs as they turn the corner and leave the clamoring Spaniards behind. "No," he explains. "I know that. But I set it up to go into a different account--to my sister's," he says, staring straight ahead. "Just in case she needs it." The truth is that he no longer trusts his father to look out for her, and he wants her to have the means to get away from him if she needs to up and leave. "I know it's not much, but," he says, scratching his head, "it's something, right?"

Lavezzi just smiles at him, again. "You're an idiot," he then says plainly, unable to keep it to himself anymore. He’s laughing as they enter the cafeteria. "You know how long you're gonna be here? What are you just going to live like this the whole time? No books, no cards, no extra anything? Nothing for downtime? Drying your face on your shirt?" 

Neymar shrugs again, and Lavezzi shoves him over to the line to get trays. When they join the table with their breakfasts, everyone else looks up as Lavezzi says, "Leo, talk some sense into your boy."

Messi raises an eyebrow.

Neymar's face burns. "I didn't do anything wrong!" he protests. He looks down at his oatmeal, hating that Lavezzi’s made this an issue. He’s embarrassed now, knowing the others will make fun of him just like Lavezzi. “I’m just, I don’t need it and she does, so that’s it.”

Thankfully Agüero and Rojo aren’t there, though he’s sure they’ll laugh at him later when they hear. 

Lavezzi just begins to eat. “His cell still looks like it did when he got here,” he says, swallowing a mouthful. “Says he sends his money home to his sister instead of buying stuff. Can you believe it?” He shakes his head as he eats another spoonful of glop. “Doesn’t even have any porno mags. Hell, it’s like he wants to suffer.” He points his spoon at Neymar. “You know, I’ve been wondering. Do you even jerk off? Because it’s not healthy to ignore your dick, man, and you seem awfully tense all the time.”

Neymar frowns, reaching for his water to wash down his breakfast. “Fuck off,” he mutters, ignoring the way Lavezzi laughs at him again. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything else.”

Di María is tittering and slapping Lavezzi on the shoulder, but Luis just shrugs. “It’s your money, Ney,” he says, patting Neymar on the leg. “You can do what you want with it.” He hesitates and then adds, “You are going to be here for a long time, though. It wouldn’t hurt to make yourself a little more comfortable. You know?”

It makes Neymar feel a little better that Luis cares about him, and truthfully, Luis probably has a point. Neymar swings his gaze to Messi, wondering what he’s thinking. 

And then, because Neymar’s rarely able to hold his tongue, he asks. “What do you think?” 

Masche rolls his eyes beside them, crunching on a piece of burned toast like he has a personal vendetta against it. He mutters something once he’s finished chewing, washing everything down with his tepid water. “He’s talking to you, Leo,” he adds grumpily when Messi doesn’t answer right away.

Messi tilts his head back slightly, spoon writing something in his oatmeal before he smooths it all out and destroys the lettering. “I can’t fault your motives,” he finally says softly, surprising Neymar. Messi doesn’t smile, but he swirls his spoon around in a way that Neymar thinks is graceful. “It is your decision.” And then he looks back down at his food and starts to draw again as if he is finished with the conversation.

Neymar can’t hold back his grin, despite knowing he probably looks silly beaming at Messi in the middle of the cafeteria. It’s been a few weeks since Messi laughed at him, but ever since, Messi’s seemed to have a soft spot for him. 

Well.

As much of a soft spot as Messi can possibly have for anyone.

Basically, it’s just sort of, a general thawing in his normal iciness.

That moment had signaled a change in the way Neymar acted around Messi too. Sure, Messi still scared the crap out of him sometimes but seeing Messi like that… Neymar had felt like a bit of the wall between them had come down. Case in point, a few months ago, Neymar would never have had the courage to even speak to Messi, and here they are today having an amicable conversation over breakfast.

Well.

Amicable conversation might be a bit of a stretch, but still. Messi likes him well enough to answer.

So Neymar starts to eat his oatmeal, wiggling his eyebrows at Di María and only barely able to refrain from sticking out his tongue. Beside him, Luis is laughing under his breath, knocking his shoulder into Ney’s companionably, while Lavezzi starts talking about all the shit he would buy if he had the dough. (It involves a *lot* of porn.)

Agüero and Rojo show up nearly at the end of the period, hair mussed and clothes out of place as if they’ve been fighting again. Masche gives them a stern look, but by then the conversation has moved on to other things and Neymar’s safe from their derision.

*****

Later, Neymar’s walking through the halls so that he can pee before work. But as he goes by James’ cell, he's reminded of his conversation with Lavezzi. Because just as it had the had the first time, the music makes Neymar stop and duck his head in. And again, James is dancing, moving his hips to the beat and twirling around in circles. 

"Neymar!" James greets him sunnily, beckoning him to enter. “Come dance with me,” he says, wiggling his fingers in Neymar’s direction, never stopping the movement of his feet. They slide a little on the dusty floor, but he never looks like he’s going to slip or fall.

Neymar is careful to look around inside this time, making sure that Ronaldo isn't lurking over on the bed. But when he's sure the coast is clear, he slowly enters, tapping his toes to the music. James’ cell is the perfect example of someone who’s made themselves at home here, decorated with mirrors and knickknacks, surrounded by gauzy scarves and lots of bright colors. And as Neymar watches James dip and shimmy, he does feel a slight regret that he doesn't have any money to buy some sort of MP3 player.

"You aren't mad at me," James says, finally coming to a stop as the song comes to an end. "About that whole thing with Dani," he clarifies, going over to his desk. He looks at himself in the mirror, running a finger under his eyes to swipe away a stray dot of makeup. His gaze goes to Neymar, eyes as beautifully lined as ever. "I owed Dani one. You know how it is, right?"

Truthfully, Neymar had forgotten about James' part in that whole thing. "Oh," he says, flicking his eyes around so he doesn't stare. He’d also forgotten how intense James’ gaze could be. "Yeah, no worries,” he says, brushing his fingers against a photograph pinned to the wall. It’s a little girl in a white dress, and Neymar can see her smile in James’.

James hums, making Neymar drop his hand. 

James doesn’t seem to care about Neymar touching the picture though, and he reaches into his desk to pull out a blue tiled box full of candy and gum. "Want some?" he asks, holding the drawer open until Neymar shakes his head. "Well," he says, closing the box and returning it to its proper place. He stands up, spinning on his heel, "I'm glad it didn’t put you off. I like you."

Neymar turns his head, trying to decide what that means. But James merely goes back to dancing as the music returns, so Neymar shrugs. He shifts his weight, trying to pretend he's dancing as opposed to dancing around in place. His feet have a tendency to slip on the floor though, so his steps don’t look as effortless as James’.

"You could spend some more time here, you know," James says, raising his hands above his head. He begins to move his hands and wrists around each other, gracefully starting to arch his neck and back as the beat picks up. "You like to dance, and I could use some company." He winks at Neymar, moving elegantly. And then he begins sashaying forward.

This time, Neymar thinks James is trying to start something.

"I, um," he says, feeling flattered, and truly not wanting to offend James. Or get in trouble with Ronaldo. "I'm not sure Messi would like that," he eventually says. "I'm not really supposed to be here, now, anyways. I'm dawdling," he says, taking a step back, smiling. "Just gotta take a whiz, and then I'm going back to the yard. And then work, obviously.”

At that, James drops his coaxing smile. "Messi," he spits out, frowning. "You were better off with Dani. He at least would take care of you, eh?" He looks sullenly at Neymar as if he’s disappointed. “I’m sorry I helped Dani now.”

Neymar forgets he has to pee. "You don't like him? Messi?”

James rolls his eyes. "Has it escaped your notice that amount of time that Cris spends with him?" He turns his back to Neymar and starts dancing again. "Good luck with that. Messi's just playing everybody anyways. He snaps his fingers and they jump. Cris included. He’s only looking out for himself, but you’ll see that eventually.” 

The beat speeds up and James’ feet move quicker and quicker, kicking up dust as they continue to dance.

"Have they—Ronaldo and Messi, that is—been," Neymar pauses, torn between making James angry and finding out more information, "together long?" He wiggles a little. "Dani said they knew each other before. On the outside. That they played together or something? Football?"

James stops dancing then, back still to Neymar. The song continues but he walks over and turns off the music. Silence fills the cell then and seems incredibly wrong. James moves jerkily across the room sits down at his desk. "Awfully nosy, aren't you?" His eyes meet Neymar's in the mirror again, honeyed tone spilling into the room. "Why do you want to know? What's it worth to you?"

Neymar bites his lip. "Never mind," he says taking a step back. The last thing he wants to do is owe James a favor. 

He's seen firsthand how favors work in here.

James spins around, sighing. "You're a strange, little thing," he murmurs, voice going back to normal. He studies Neymar, shaking his head. "Your questions are going to end up getting you killed, you know. You ask the wrong person... And you're dead." He tilts his head. "Thankfully, I'm not the wrong person--today, at least."

Neymar winces.

"They were a thing," James says then with a touch of bitterness. "I don't know much about it, but it stopped when Messi got put away. They'd probably always kinda expected that, with Messi's lifestyle... Or they should have with the kind of shit he got up to.“ He turns back to the mirror, pinching his cheeks and then looking through his drawers for something. "Cris went to prison some time afterward, after that thing with his agent, and things had changed. Some of it because Messi might have known about the agent? Or at least that’s what Cris says? That he knew and didn’t tell him? Pretty shitty, but that’s Messi for you.” He shrugs, pulling out a tube of something. “But then there was the other thing. Maybe you haven't realized yet," James says, raising an eyebrow as he finds Neymar’s eyes in the mirror again, "but sex is power."

Neymar processes that. ”Do they even have sex?" he asks, thinking back to all the times he's seen Ronaldo and Messi making out. 

James gives him a withering glance. "No. Because sex is power," he repeats slowly. He opens the tube and begins to apply something to his lips. "And that's the thing, see? Outside it was a different story. They could do whatever they wanted. Hell, switch off if they wanted. But in here? If you want to stay in power, you don't let it get around that you're getting fucked. You fuck. But you don't get fucked. You feel me?"

"So if they're not, you know," Neymar says, smooshing his hands together, "then why do they even bother?" He bites tongue after and tries not to stare as James’ lips become pinker and shinier.

James looks up at the ceiling. "They cared about each other, once," he says, dully. "Some sentimental bullshit that neither of them can let go of. Cris doesn't talk about it, and I very much doubt Messi ever does either." He looks back at Neymar. "But as I said, Messi fucks. Agüero, the cannibal, you and whoever else he wants... He doesn't get fucked." James ignores Neymar's faint protest and then softens his tone, smacking his lips together. "Works out well for me, doesn't it? Cris goes and gets worked up, and then comes back to me--because he knows I'll give him what he wants."

James runs a finger around his bottom lip and smirks then. "And I'm *very* good at giving him what he wants," he adds, seeming more like his normal self. He returns the tube of lip gloss to his drawer and then starts to chew his gum faster. "Are you sure you don't want to spend some more time here," he asks again, pursing his lips in the mirror and smiling at his reflection. Soon after, he’s skipping over to put his music back and forgetting he was ever ticked off. “Just one little dance,” he purrs, raising his arms over his head again.

Neymar shifts his weight again, watching as James starts to swivel those hips and---"I really have to pee!" he blurts out, retreating before James get can too close.

As he's running away, he thinks he can hear James laughing at him.

*****

After work, they go to the gym during free time instead of heading to the showers. 

Neymar’s never actually been there before, having preferred sleeping whenever anybody else went. But while they were walking down to the workroom earlier, Luis had started to get a little twitchy, and it became readily apparent that he was having one of his bad days. His words had slurred into snarls, and he’d started to crouch instead of stand. It had to have pained his ribs, but he’d seemed oblivious. He’d become entirely animalistic, barely recognizing any of them and listlessly staring off into nowhere. Neymar’s not sure what triggered it, or even if Luis needed a trigger for it to happen, but he’d watched in concern as Messi had sent Luis back to rest. 

And so now Neymar has to go to the gym because everybody else is going. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to work out a little,” Rojo says as they head for the doorway. “Looks like a breeze could blow you over.”

Lavezzi says something to that which involves Neymar and blowing, but Neymar’s not really paying attention to him as they enter.

He’d been imagining a bright room lined with treadmills and ellipticals, with mirrors and colored foam mats and a plethora of free weights available for anyone who wants them. There would be shelves of clean white towels and bottled water, with perhaps some upbeat music playing in the background. That’s a foolish fantasy, of course, and the reality is something more in line with everything else in prison. 

It’s dark and dirty, dimly lit and overcrowded with a few ancient machines. 

It’s another dingy place where Neymar doesn’t really want to touch anything, but nobody else bats an eye at the filth. Their group ignores the two noisy treadmills in the corner—perhaps because of the line of inmates waiting to use them—and heads for a large floor mat on the other side. Neymar thinks they’re going to the area with the weights against the wall or the punching bag hanging from the ceiling, but in actuality, they stop on the mat.

Agüero strips off his shirt and tosses it at Rojo’s face.

While Rojo splutters, Messi calmly removes his own shirt and hands it to Neymar without a word. Neymar takes it with wide eyes, holding it against his stomach while Messi steps into some space on the mat. And then Neymar definitely does not watch the way Messi’s back muscles move as he stretches his arms over his head. 

The thing is, Messi’s *so* small. 

Neymar forgets sometimes, because of the way he carries himself. He seems larger than life—or at least his power makes him seem that way. But Messi’s waist is tiny, his ribcage slimmer than it should be. Probably because he never seems to eat. And yet, he’s also incredibly fit, obvious biceps and muscled forearms becoming evident when he drops his arms to his sides to stick his thumbs in his waistband.

The brightly colored flowers on his arm are vivid against the paleness of the rest of him.

“Ready?” Messi asks Agüero, tilting his head to first one side and then the other as if he’s cracking his neck. His dark eyes seem bright, like he’s itching to get started. But the rest of him is expressionless, his lips pressed together as usual.

Agüero bounces a little, shaking out his arms in response. He looks like he’s spent more time working out, biceps bigger than Messi’s but also proportionate to the rest of his body. “Always,” he says, bending his knees slightly and then taking a few steps forward. He starts to smile, mimicking the way Messi had cracked his neck. “Hit me.”

Neymar raises his eyebrows, worrying Messi’s shirt between his fingers. He knows Agüero’s always treated Messi a certain way when they’re in private, but in public, Agüero isn’t usually so forward. But none of the Argentines seem bothered, or astonished by Agüero’s attitude, as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. And it must be normal because Messi merely nods his head.

Maybe that’s because everybody always wants to hit Agüero in the face.

Then Neymar blinks and nearly misses the way Messi’s fist furiously flashes forward.

Agüero doesn’t, clearly expecting it. He blocks the punch by letting it smack into his forearm and then he retaliates by kicking a leg out toward’s Messi’s chest. His grin is firmly in place, even as Messi bats away his foot like it’s nothing. 

“You always go left first,” Messi notes, shifting his weight from side to side, hips moving like he’s dancing. He kicks out himself, slightly hitting Agüero’s thigh before following the kick up with a punch with enough force that it nearly smashes Agüero’s jaw. “You might want to watch that,” Messi advises, still expressionless as Agüero dances back and rubs his face.

Agüero laughs, shaking his head to clear it. “Worry about yourself,” he throws out, returning to his place and moving back and forth like he’s feeling Messi out. He jabs with one fist and then the other, nearly getting Messi on the chin before retreating a few steps. “Always so chatty when you fight.”

Neymar looks between them and raises his eyebrows. He’s not exactly sure he’d call this being chatty… But then again, it’s true that Messi doesn’t talk much outside of his cell.

The fight seems to intensify after that, whether because of Agüero’s words or because the first few punches were just them warming up. Having never seen Messi and Agüero fight before, Neymar isn’t sure how things are supposed to go. But they seem pretty evenly matched, probably because they’ve been doing this for so long and know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. And the first time Agüero lands a punch, Neymar flinches. 

Messi just wipes the blood off his lip and continues.

It’s a whirlwind of activity, the two of them circling, punching and kicking, ducking and dancing until they’re both dripping with sweat. Messi’s bottom lip looks like it’s purple and one of Agüero’s eyes is starting to swell. Neymar watches with fascination, wondering how they keep it going for so long. He’s out of breath just watching, and he can tell by the way that their chests are heaving that they’re getting winded too.

Eventually, it’s Masche who puts an end to it. “It’s getting late,” he says after Agüero gives up on punching and tries to put Messi into a headlock. Messi curses, arms slipping off of Agüero’s arm while he keeps trying to elbow him in the stomach to escape. One must make contact, because Agüero grunts and starts trying to flip them down onto the mat. Masche just looks around the room, always watching, keeping an eye out on the inmates as well as the guards by the door. Finally, his gaze returns to the fight. “Leo,” he says warningly.

Messi and Agüero straighten after that, hearing something in that tone that even Neymar can understand. Agüero’s grin reappears, and he slaps Messi on the shoulder. “Almost had you,” he says playfully, bumping him with his hip before he heads over to where Rojo’s got his shirt. “Give it here,” he demands, baring his teeth when Rojo acts like he’s going to hold it behind his back.

Rojo hisses something (“Stupid cow,” maybe?) that Neymar doesn’t catch.

Because Messi is beckoning Neymar closer.

At first, he thinks that Messi just wants his shirt back, so Neymar holds it out. He looks down and sees that it’s fairly wrinkled from how tightly he was holding it, so he shakes it out and then holds it out again. 

Messi flicks his eyes down at the shirt. “No,” Messi says, trying to catch his breath, “come here for a second.” 

Lavezzi reaches over and takes Messi’s shirt from Neymar’s fingers, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he pokes Neymar in the back. “Ney.”

Neymar hesitantly walks over to Messi. “What—what do you want me to do?” His fingers twitch down by his sides, nails catching on his pants, while he looks at Messi curiously. 

He half wants to touch Messi’s purpling lip.

Messi meets his gaze evenly. “Kun said he helped you out in a fight,” he says softly. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, uncaring that some of the strands end up mussed. “He said you were going to lose.” He doesn’t look over at Agüero or any of the others and keeps his eyes on Neymar.

Neymar holds his breath. He’d forgotten about that, but it makes sense Agüero would have told Messi. And it’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “Yes,” he admits, shifting his weight and feeling the mat squish slightly beneath him. “I’m not… I don’t really know how to fight much.”

There’s a laugh from Di María. “Much? Try, ‘at all,’” he says from where he’s standing with Masche.

But Messi doesn’t laugh. “You should learn,” he says, voice as quiet as ever. He tilts his head from side to side, stretching out his neck again and then sighs. It’s not a sigh of fatigue or annoyance, more of a slight exhalation than anything else—as if he’s just come to a decision. “Show me how you would hit me.” 

Neymar swallows. “I wouldn’t hit you,” he says, looking around at some of the others for help. Lavezzi is staring back at him in amusement, but offers no advice. And Rojo’s checking out Agüero’s eye and not paying any attention to them.

Neymar’s hands tighten into fists as he tenses.

And then Messi’s hands are touching his face. “Look at me,” Messi instructs, turning Neymar back toward him. 

They’re suddenly closer together than Neymar expected, and he can feel the warmth from Messi’s body pouring off of him. 

“You must always look at your opponent. Never away,” Messi says firmly, waiting for Neymar to nod. Then his fingers stroke down the side of Neymar’s neck, right over his tattoo. His eyes move to the inked spot for a second.

Messi’s hands are hot, but Neymar shivers.

Messi’s thumb smooths over the black words cautiously as if testing for pain. Then he meets Neymar’s gaze again. “Never away,” he says again, thumb pressing gently against Neymar’s neck.

Neymar’s throat is dry, and he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. So he just nods again.

Messi’s hands slowly move to Neymar’s shoulders, burning through Neymar’s thin shirt. “Relax through here,” he says quietly, continuing to move his hands down Neymar’s arms until he gets to his palms. “And here.” He pries Neymar’s fists open. “Thumbs outside, not inside. Or you’ll break them on somebody’s face.” 

The mention of violence should make Neymar cringe, but he’s too distracted by the feeling of Messi’s hands on his. He lets his fingers be guided into fists again, this time with this thumbs on the outside. 

Messi nods approvingly, hands sliding to Neymar’s wrists. “Hold them here,” he murmurs, moving them between their bodies until they’re in front of Neymar’s heart. “Good,” he whispers, waiting until Neymar’s holding his hands up on his own. 

Neymar wants to sway forward at that, unused to praise, but he manages to stay still. But he’s on edge, just as he is every time that Messi touches him. 

Messi slides his hands back over Neymar’s forearms, seemingly planning on moving up towards his biceps, fingers teasing the skin underneath Neymar’s sleeves. But Neymar inhales as Messi’s thumbs touch the sensitive skin inside his elbows, and Messi’s movement stops.

“Kun can teach you more. Next time,” Messi says then, abruptly dropping his hands. He steps by Neymar to take his shirt back from Lavezzi, pulling it on in one smooth motion. 

It sticks to his sweaty skin.

Agüero grumbles something to Rojo at that, but Messi ignores it, falling into stride with Masche and moving for the exit. 

The rest of the group follows, except for Lavezzi who looks at Neymar appraisingly. “So how do you like the gym?” he asks, laughing.

Neymar just shakes his head. He really, really, needs a cold shower.

*****

Later, after lights out, (and that much needed cold shower) Neymar can’t help thinking about what James had told him earlier. 

About sex.

The truth is, Neymar thinks about sex a lot. About how someone’s lips would feel on his neck, gently moving down his throat and leaving pink marks on his skin. About how someone’s hand would twist just right on his cock, thumb spreading across the tip. About that delicious ache that would shoot through his body when someone presses him down and hits that perfect spot inside him… 

He thinks about it a lot.

It’s a good thing he has his cell to himself, because despite what he talked about with Lavezzi, he takes advantage of it.

After all, he’s only human… 

But what James had said—the idea that sex is power…

Neymar had never really thought about it that way. It *hadn’t* been that way for him on the outside. It had about fun, about feeling good—or about making the other person feel good. And sure maybe he felt some power when a guy was tripping over himself to get Neymar to come home with him… He got a little thrill making others chase him. 

But actually submitting? That hadn’t been about power. 

And yet, from what Neymar’s seen in here, James is right.

People make jokes about it, about Neymar being Messi’s bitch. About him taking it up the ass, and being worthless as a result. Hell, even the other Argentines make jokes like that. Neymar’s never known exactly how to react, since he knows it isn’t true. 

Messi’s never fucked him. Never acted like he was going to either.

Just as Luis had promised, Messi’s never touched Neymar like that. So, Neymar doesn’t quite understand. If it truly is a power thing, Neymar doesn’t know why Messi doesn’t just force the issue. It would be easy for Messi—he’s much stronger than Neymar is and nobody would probably try to stop him. 

Truthfully, that’s not what Neymar wants. 

*Of course* that’s not what he wants. 

He knows that sort of thing goes on in here, and he’s utterly thankful it’s never happened to him. Despite everything that’s happened to him, he’s realized he’s lucky. He could have just as easily become a plaything for the Chileans or one of the other gangs in here. And so having Messi and the Argentines to protect him now is a godsend.

But he’s finding… day after day of Messi looking at him, of speaking to him, of gently touching his face, his neck, his hands… it’s taking a toll.

Neymar doesn’t care anymore about what people will say. He wants to get fucked. And when he’s on his hands and knees, muffling his moans into his pillow while he jerks off and imagines someone pushing him down into the sheets—it’s Messi he thinks of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took so long. Good news is I have a lot of the next chapter written--I actually wrote that first and then realized more needed to happen so I had to go back and fill in a few scenes here. Hope you enjoy :)


	18. He Notices Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar thinks the days start to blur after awhile, though sometimes he wonders if that’s a good thing. He hasn’t gone back to the gym, doesn’t want to revisit the place that still features in his dreams. (And of course, he doesn’t want Agüero to be throwing fists at his face either. Especially since Agüero starts glowering whenever working out is even mentioned by anyone in the group.) He still doesn’t know what to do about Messi, still doesn’t know how to deal with what’s growing between them. The looks are there, the touches, the gentle words…
> 
> Neymar is falling.
> 
> In a strange way, it calms him, because, for some reason, he’s so sure that Messi will catch him. Despite *everything* he’s heard, *everything* he’s seen, he thinks that Messi just might be a good guy. 
> 
> Murderous… but, you know, good.

Neymar thinks the days start to blur after awhile, though sometimes he wonders if that’s a good thing. He hasn’t gone back to the gym, doesn’t want to revisit the place that still features in his dreams. (And of course, he doesn’t want Agüero to be throwing fists at his face either. Especially since Agüero starts glowering whenever working out is even mentioned by anyone in the group.) He still doesn’t know what to do about Messi, still doesn’t know how to deal with what’s growing between them. The looks are there, the touches, the gentle words…

Neymar is falling.

In a strange way, it calms him, because, for some reason, he’s so sure that Messi will catch him. Despite *everything* he’s heard, *everything* he’s seen, he thinks that Messi just might be a good guy. 

Murderous… but, you know, good.

Or at least, Neymar wants him to be a good guy. He wants to trust him, wants there not to be secrets between them. Messi often discusses things with Masche in front of him, and Neymar thinks that has to mean something. When Neymar’s sprawled out on Messi’s bed, listening again to Messi talk about Moscow and Sampaoli, he stays quiet and hopes that one day Messi will include him in the conversation. 

Messi hasn’t yet. But Neymar keeps hoping.

Neymar likes these moments. Somehow it reminds him of how he used to laze around on Sunday mornings, in his old bedroom at home. Sure, the sunlight isn't filtering in through the windows, and he doesn't have Poker curled up beside him while he listens to the sounds of the city outside... And okay the cell is dark and the sheets are scratchy and the everyday prison sounds are less than pleasant... 

But somehow it reminds him. 

Because he likes that he can doze in Messi’s cell—Luis’ warmth at his back—and he doesn’t have to worry about anything. Maybe that's strange, especially considering where he is and who’s around him. But he likes that Messi’s gaze will sometimes travel over to the bed while Masche's speaking, that those dark eyes will focus on his face, skim down his body slowly and steadily. 

It electrifies Neymar.

If he’s awake and aware, eyes slitted and staring back, Neymar will often arch in response. He pretends he’s stretching, pretends it’s not purposeful and that he’s just trying to get comfortable. Maybe he turns on his side, maybe he reaches an arm over his head to toy with the pillow. But it’s just enough that his shirt rises—that he reveals a sliver of skin at his belly or a hint of his hip bone. He's playing a little bit of a game, and maybe it's stupid, but he never does more than that. 

Everything is unspoken then, and Messi’s eyes sometimes linger.

Messi doesn’t have to say anything, (and he never has, maybe he never will?) but Neymar knows. 

He knows now that he’s wanted, desired, but also that he’s safe and protected, and that nobody would dare try to hurt him in there with Messi watching. And Neymar’s heart might jump into his throat while those dark eyes are on him, but he’s always filled with a deep sense of calm when Messi looks away and he can doze again.

In those short moments, Neymar feels a peace that he never felt with Dani.

Of course, everything is peaceful compared to when Neymar runs into the Chileans in the hallways. It happens more than he likes, simply because the prison is really *not* that big. It’s not out of the ordinary to see the same faces every day. James will smile at him, or Zlatan will turn up his nose. Isco will avoid him, while Marcelo might wink. 

But when Neymar sees the Chileans, it’s a different story. 

It never fails to make him freeze, and he has to desperately fight to keep himself still and not cause a scene. If there’s a hitch in his step, Lavezzi just assumes it’s Neymar being clumsy again, and usually doesn’t say anything. Rojo might laugh, or Luis might link their arms together and shake his head, but nobody makes a big deal out of it. Di María is usually walking ahead, and Agüero and Masche simply don’t care.

Messi probably notices, only because he notices everything, but he never says anything.

It doesn’t help that the Chileans have realized that Neymar’s kept everything a secret from Messi. They know he hasn't snitched on them. He's kept his word, hasn't told Messi that they hit him. 

Hasn’t told Messi that they wanted to kill Luis. 

Medel and Vidal revel in it. 

Medel likes to glare and mouth things when Messi’s head is turned the other way. Insults, threats, whatever he can think of that will make Neymar uncomfortable. Vidal stares coldly, making it clear that if looks could kill, Neymar would absolutely be dead. And Jara… well, he smiles creepily, licking his lips and looking up and down Neymar’s body like he’s imagining him naked.

Neymar’s not sure which is worse. He makes sure to stay away from Jara in the showers whenever possible. Just seeing him makes his skin crawl.

But the Chileans aren’t Neymar’s only problems. Guardiola and Enrique are continuously sniffing around him like they’re looking for any excuse to trip him up. It’s just one more reason that Neymar doesn’t go looking for trouble. He follows the others around, goes to meals and to work when he’s supposed to, and never ever talks when the guards walk by him. Neymar doesn’t see them every day, especially with the way the guards rotate in the rooms or out in the yard, but he sees them often enough to know that they’re still keeping an eye on him. 

And Messi.

Oh, Neymar knows how much Guardiola hates Messi. Every time Messi so much as breathes in Guardiola’s direction, the guard nearly froths at the mouth. But Guardiola apparently doesn’t have as much power as he needs to do anything about it. Especially since Messi has other connections, is friendly with Martino and Zidane and some of the others. And since Guardiola's only a guard and not the warden, he can’t seem to pin anything on Messi.

“Do you hate them?” Neymar asks one day, as they’re walking down to the manufacturing room. For some reason, he and Messi are leading the pack and have gotten some ways ahead of the rest of the group. Neymar kinda likes it because he can pretend they're alone. It’s not like it’s a romantic walk in the park or anything, but he likes to think of it as them bonding slightly. Of course, then they turn the corner, entering one of the dimly lit corridors and Messi pauses, waiting for Agüero and Rojo to catch up a bit. “The guards?” Neymar asks, continuing to walk, trying to get Messi to continue too.

“No,” Messi replies absentmindedly, fingers immediately wrapped in Neymar’s shirt to keep him from moving ahead. It’s something he’s started doing when they walk somewhere, keeping Neymar beside him whenever he’s thinking. “Wait for them,” Messi cautions, ignoring the way he’s stretching the fabric. His eyes dart ahead into the dark hallway, and they don’t move again until the others have mostly caught up to them.

Neymar shifts his weight, chastised, suddenly uneasy because Messi is uneasy. But then Messi starts walking again, hand still tugging on Neymar’s shirt. It's almost like a leash, so Neymar starts walking too. 

“No,” Messi says again, resuming their conversation like he’d never stopped in the first place. “Why should I?” He keeps his eyes on darkness on either side of them but doesn’t seem wary anymore as the others catch up to them. 

“Well,” Neymar says slowly, following obediently, “because they hate you. And they’re out to get you?” He's walking too fast and it's stretching his shirt out because Messi isn't in a rush. Neymar shortens his stride, trying to match his steps with Messi’s. It’s rather difficult due to the difference in their leg length, but he does his best. “Don’t you worry about them?” 

He kicks a small stone out of his path, watching it disappear into the darkness. He keeps thinking about the Chileans, about how every time he sees them he nearly freaks out. 

“They’re always watching your every move, trying to figure out how to mess with you,” Neymar murmurs, thinking of the way Vidal had looked at him. Messi’s been here so long already. He’s known Guardiola for awhile, and probably clashed with him numerous times. And somehow neither of them have snapped… Neymar wonders how he does it. “I hate them. I hate seeing them every day.“

They’re approaching the doorway of the workroom, but Messi hasn’t answered. Neymar frowns, assuming the conversation is over. Mentally he shrugs. It hadn’t been his best conversation with Messi, but it hadn’t been his worst one either. In any case, he’s not surprised Messi refused to elaborate—he knows that Messi doesn’t often reveal much outside of his cell.

Except then, Messi stops abruptly and Neymar gets tugged back by his shirt again.

“Wait. What?” Messi asks, like something Neymar said has filtered into his brain. “Who are you talking about?” He ignores the way the group has come to a halt behind them. “Who do you think is watching you?” His grip on Neymar’s shirt moves from the hem to the collar, growing firmer. He pulls until Neymar has to bend down slightly. “You’re not talking about the guards anymore,” Messi says slowly in realization, lowering his voice. “Are you.”

It’s not asked like a question.

Nothing ever is.

Neymar stammers, trying to think. “I—I—,” he stutters, feeling hot all of a sudden. “I was!” he blurts out. “Enrique, and—and—Guardiola,” he lies, his face burning like it’s on fire as Messi’s dark eyes peer at him. “That's it. I wasn't talking about anyone else,” he pleads, starting to hear the crowd growing restless behind him. 

Messi looks at him.

Really looks at him.

“You’re lying,” Messi says tersely. His eyes stare into Neymar's, a hint of anger there. 

It’s a look that Neymar’s never seen directed at him, and it scares him half to death. 

A second later, Messi’s outward anger is smothered. Then he just looks confused. “Why would you lie to me?” he asks incredulously. His dark eyes narrow like he’s thinking through everything Neymar’s said, everything that Neymar could have possibly lied about. It’s like he’s reliving every conversation they’ve ever had, looking for clues in order to piece everything together.

Just then, Neymar hears Piqué’s booming voice in the crowd, asking what the hold up is.

Messi must hear it too, but he doesn't move. Or rather, he jerks Neymar to the side so that the others can enter. He stands there, hand fisted in Neymar's shirt, staring at Neymar while everyone continues into the room. And everyone does go inside, though they don’t go that far just in case Messi’s about to pummel Neymar.

They all like a fight, after all. 

"Why would you lie to me?" Messi repeats, this time heatedly once they're semi-alone. His normally pale skin is starting to flush as if he's genuinely, genuinely angry. He lets go of Neymar's shirt and takes a step back. 

Neymar feels cold.

“What kind of fucking idiot are you, that you would lie to me?" Messi asks. 

Neymar helplessly shakes his head. 

Messi raises his eyebrows. "Do you… Do you think *I'm* a fucking idiot?" he asks slowly. “Do you think that I’m blind? That I can't tell by now when you're lying? I've mentioned what a shit liar you are, right?" He tilts his head back, nostrils flaring like if Neymar were anybody else they’d be flat on the floor by now. "Don't you dare lie to me," he hisses. "Do you know what happens to people who lie to me?"

Neymar squeezes his eyes shut. He's reminded that this man is a murderer.

This isn't what he wanted at all. Not when things are going so well for him with the others. Not when things are going so well for him with Messi. Things are fragile. Neymar has always known that. His time with Dani had taught him not to get used to anything, not to feel safe. But he'd still hoped...

And then, for the first time, Neymar sees that Messi might have hoped too.

Neymar doesn't realize it at first. But then, Messi steps closer to him, gently pressing him against the wall with a hand flat on his chest. Even with how furious he is, he’s careful not to hurt Neymar. “After all this time," he murmurs, searching Neymar's gaze. It’s quiet, always quiet, but Messi’s eyes say more than they ever have before. 

And Neymar sees something sad. Something that cuts through his fear and makes him want to throw up. Because in Messi’s eyes he sees something he never thought he’d see. He sees a flicker of life drying up and turning back to stone.

Because Messi steps back again, shaking his head like he can't believe it. "Fuck off." He doesn't give Neymar another look and continues into the workroom. 

Neymar is left standing there, shaking, before Luis comes back into the hallway, takes his elbow and leads him inside. He’s not sure he would have been able to move otherwise. He probably would have stayed outside in the hallway, staring at the door, reliving over and over the way Messi’s eyes had changed.

He feels sick again. 

The others are hovering around the doorway, inside the room, keeping the rest of the crowd from approaching. Lavezzi gives him a curious look as they all go and get their trays to start working. The Spaniards and Portuguese seem not to care too much about what just happened, especially since there isn't any bloodshed, and they continue over to their own tables to start working.

But Neymar’s fingers are trembling, and he nearly drops the box with his tray before he even gets back to their table.

“What were you talking about. Ney?” Luis hisses, watching as across from them, Messi begins to methodically speed through finishing a tray. “Why did he get so serious?”

Neymar stares down at his own tray, spinning a metal piece between his fingers. He’s messed up, and even worse than that, he's messed up with Messi. And that's not something that's easily forgiven. He's tired of lying, but he’s gone too far now to go back. He's not a snitch! He can’t tell Luis or Messi about the Chileans—no matter how afraid he is that one day he’s going to get jumped. “I asked if he was worried about the guards,” he finally says, trying to hide his fear. “He said he wasn’t.”

Luis looks at him dubiously. “Then why did he get like that?” He looks over to the side to see that Messi has finished his first tray and started another already. Luis frowns. “Look at him. He’s pissed, Ney. What the hell happened?”

Neymar rubs his forehead. “He thought,” he sighs, hating everything, “that I was lying to him or something. Like, all of a sudden he thought that there was something I wasn’t saying.” And fuck, Messi was right to think that, but Neymar presses his lips together and refuses to say another word. 

Luis rolls a circuit between his fingers, clearly not buying it. “If he’s right… Whatever it is, Ney," he murmurs, leaning in closer so they won't be overheard, "you should trust him. He can help you--protect you." Luis sounds so certain, so earnest, even when Neymar doesn't react. “If you need help… If there's something wrong--you gotta tell him. No matter what it is. Trust him."

Neymar bites his lip.

Luis eventually lets him be, forehead creasing with annoyance. 

The work seems to take longer that day. Luis doesn’t talk to him, either fed up with Neymar or too focused on his own work to deal with the issue. Neymar hopes it’s the latter because he can’t afford to lose Luis as his friend. The others focus on their work too, the conversation often sacrificed so that they can turn in more trays. Neymar doesn’t quite mind. Once he collects himself, he finishes tray after tray, eager to think of something other than what Messi is going to do afterward. Sometimes he sneaks a peek over at Messi, looking up through his lashes at the dark head bent over the table. 

Messi’s fingers fly over the trays faster than Neymar thought possible, metal pieces and circuits going into their assigned places quicker than Neymar can blink. But Messi never says a word. Never looks over at Neymar. Never loses the anger that's resurfaced in his eyes.

Neymar swallows and stops looking up.

When the bell rings, he’s slow to return his final tray. His pile for the day is impressive, largely due to the way he’d buckled down and focused so he didn't have to look at Messi. But his limbs feel heavy, and his mind even more so.

He’s fucked up. 

Everything’s fucked up.

The room empties quickly, everyone racing off either to the showers or so they can enjoy their downtime. Neymar feels like he's in slow motion as he watches each person disappear, faces and voices blurring together while the inmates exit in a clump. But Neymar recognizes Messi's face. 

And Messi doesn’t wait for Neymar like he usually does. He strides out of the room--head up, shoulders back, eyes fiery--letting everyone know that he’s annoyed. Masche follows instantly. Di María, Lavezzi, and Agüero do as well. Luis looks between Neymar and the door, seeming hesitant, but eventually, he walks quickly after the group.

Only Rojo waits for Neymar. “What the hell, Ney?” he asks, chewing a piece of gum idly. “What did you say to make him so mad?” He leans against the wall and waits until Neymar starts to walk with him. “You’re a fucking moron. And I say this having dealt with Agüero for years on a daily basis.”

Neymar forces himself to pick his feet up and walk through the hallway. “Yeah,” he agrees. He doesn't say anything else, and Rojo doesn't ask. Their walk is silent except for Rojo's chomping.

They're almost all the way back to the cell level when Neymar realizes he forgot to write his cell number next to his tally of trays. "Fuck," he says, stopping in his tracks. If he doesn't write his number, he doesn't get credit, and if he doesn't get credit, his pay doesn’t go to Rafaela. "I gotta run back real quick," he says to Rojo. "Sorry," he says when Rojo looks annoyed. "I'll be fast," he promises, taking a few steps backward. 

Rojo hesitates, but then waves and keeps walking.

Neymar's true to his word. He retraces his steps and runs back down to the workroom, scribbling his number down quickly before heading back. He hurries too because the hallways freak him out.

Especially down here.

And especially when he's alone.

He's jogging through the corridor, shoes slapping along the concrete and kicking up dust when he hears it. So he stops, skidding a little and catching his breath as he cocks an ear. He knows he heard something, but he doesn't know what it is. Someone talking maybe? All he hears is the blood rushing through his own ears. He shrugs, about to start walking again, when all of a sudden he hears it again.

A sob.

Neymar freezes. It's muffled, but it's unmistakably someone crying. He knows he should keep walking, knows he shouldn't get involved. Plenty of people had warned him about these hallways. Hell, even Messi had seemed uneasy about the hallways earlier. But Neymar steps to the side and peers into the darkness, silently waiting for his eyes to adjust. And it's hard to see at first, but he waits and doesn't venture closer.

Eventually, he sees them.

It is a *them*.

It's two people. One is a guard, that much is obvious from the uniform, though his back is to Neymar and it's impossible to tell which one. He’s tall with dark hair. And he's got someone up against the wall in front of him. One hand is around the man's throat, while the other is sliding down the man's chest and into his pants. Neymar holds his breath, cringing, not knowing what to do. At that moment, the guard moves his head to the side to whisper something. And it’s enough for Neymar to see that it's one of the Spaniards... 

Roberto... up against the wall. 

The boy is crying quietly, the hand around his throat clearly making it hard to breathe. He's trying to push the guard away, struggling weakly without making much progress. His face is turning red, and his cheeks are shining with tears.

Neymar wants to throw up for a different reason now.

And in that moment, he doesn’t think, he just yells. “HEY!” The scream echoes throughout the hallway, cutting through the darkness easily. The guard drops Roberto, grabbing his night stick and spinning around immediately to confront Neymar.

It’s Enrique.

The sight of him makes Neymar’s blood boil. All he can think of was the way Enrique had cornered Rafa that day in the laundry room… The way Rafa had cringed away afterward, and the way he’d been afraid of being alone with Enrique.

Neymar gets it, now.

He also gets that he’s in fucking trouble because Enrique has caught sight of him and is charging toward him. Neymar barely sees the way Roberto peels off in the opposite direction because he’s so busy turning on his heel and running towards the cells. Behind him, he can hear Enrique hollering his name, telling him to stop—but Neymar doesn’t stop. He runs as if his life depends on it.

And maybe it does.

When he reaches the main level, he’s going so fast that he nearly runs into the wall as he turns the corner. But he keeps running, shoes slipping on the concrete, pushing through the few people in the hallway. He says a little prayer for his long legs finally being good for something, but then has to focus—running is harder than he remembered and he’s not really in shape anymore. By the time he reaches the block where Messi’s cell is located, Enrique is only a few steps behind him. 

“You just let him go by himself?” Someone is asking from inside, but Neymar isn’t really listening as Enrique surges forward.

“You piece of shit!” Enrique screams, grabbing hold of the back of his shirt.

But Neymar hasn’t come this far to get caught now. 

He lunges inside the cell, raising his arms and feeling his shirt slide clean off his body as he stumbles free. Everyone looks up in surprise as Neymar falls to the ground and frantically crawls forward until he’s surrounded. Rojo, Agüero, and Di María look down at him curiously from where they were standing by the doorway. And Lavezzi gets to his feet from where he’d been sitting on the window sill. 

But Messi, with Masche at his shoulder, remains in his chair. His legs are splayed and his face is blank as he stares down at where Neymar is cowering by his feet.

Enrique storms in, throwing Neymar’s shirt down on the ground. “You,” he says, pointing his baton at Neymar, “get outside. Now. We’re gonna be having a chat. And then I think you'll be spending some time in solitary.” 

Neymar doesn’t move. He stares up at Messi, fingernails digging into the cement floor. He’s breathing hard, nearly coughing as he tries to get air into his lungs, unable to speak. But his eyes never leave Messi, because he knows Messi is the only one who can save him. “Please,” he mouths, tongue dry and words soundless. “Please.”

It’s Masche who speaks. “Talk about what?” he asks blandly, crossing his arms. He looks bored. “What’s the fuss about? Can’t say I remember you ever running after someone like that.”

Enrique’s panting and he drags a hand through his hair as if he’s trying to calm himself. He shakes his baton at Masche. “That’s between me and him, Mascherano,” he spits out. “And when I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”

There’s silence after that.

Neymar’s hands slide across the floor slowly, palms scraping over dirt and dust and who knows what else. He keeps his head up, chest heaving, and crawls closer to Messi until he’s right between his legs. “I didn’t see anything,” he mutters when his voice works again. “Tell him, I didn’t see anything. Nothing happened. He can go, we don’t have to talk. Nothing happened.” He’s getting frantic now, with Messi staying quiet and showing no sign of wanting to help him. “I’m not a snitch,” he says louder, dirty hands clinging to Messi’s ankles now like that’s going to stop Enrique from dragging him from the room. “I’m not!”

Enrique takes a step forward. 

“Ney!” Luis says from over on the bed. Neymar hadn’t even realized he was in the room, but he’s there, resting on his side. "Remember what I said downstairs!”

Neymar's hiding his face against Messi's shoes now, unable to look up at Messi’s cold eyes and desperately trying to remember what his friend had said. And then it comes to him. 'Trust him,' Luis had said.

Trust him.

Trust *him*.

Trust Messi.

And that's the thing, Neymar thinks he does.

"You, fucking shut up before I make you," Enrique sneers, pausing on his way towards Neymar, distracted by his hatred for Luis. 

But it's enough time for Neymar to raise his head and look up at Messi again. "I saw him," Neymar says quickly. This time, he’s determined not to hold anything back. He’ll tell the truth and the whole truth. And he’ll tell Messi because he trusts him. "Down in the hallway by the workroom." He ignores whatever else Enrique is saying behind him. "He was touching someone--that boy, that Spaniard." His mind blanks on the name, and for a second all he can see are those big blue eyes filled with tears. "Piqué's favorite!" he says, even while he's yanked up by his hair from behind. His hands slide off Messi’s ankles before Neymar has a chance to do anything more.

"I said, don't you say another word!" Enrique yells, pulling on Neymar's hair hard enough to make him yelp. “You fucking bitch. You’ll be sorry you ever ran from me!”

Neymar's hands go up to his head, trying to stop the pain. He feels like he’s bleeding, like his hair is being ripped out of his head, and Enrique just keeps pulling and pulling. Neymar squeezes his eyes shut as the tears come, wondering if this is the end. Nobody will help him, they weren't really ever his friends, and they certainly never cared about him.

Except then...

"Let. Him. Go,” Messi says slowly.

Neymar can’t breathe.


	19. What's Done is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enrique laughs. "Think you rule this place, don't you?" He takes a step closer to Messi, ignoring Neymar at their feet. Masche takes a step forward then too, and Enrique looks at him in warning before he stares at Messi again. “It’s amazing how delusional some of you get in here, like you think you’re a king in your castle instead of locked in your room every night like a child.”
> 
> Messi’s hand never stops moving through Neymar’s hair.
> 
> “I think you have no idea what I’m thinking,” Messi says calmly, and Enrique’s smile slowly disappears. “And I think you have no idea what I can really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neymar moving to Psg has, in general, made it quite difficult for me to write Neymessi. But, because this story is so AU, I don't tend to think of Neymar as himself, but more as a character, and therefore I will definitely still continue this fic and still continue with the Neymessi as I planned.

 "Let. Him. Go,” Messi says slowly.

Neymar can’t breathe. The pain is immense, his hands desperately trying to keep his hair from leaving his scalp as Enrique pulls harder than ever. But he hears those three words vividly through everything, hears that Messi is speaking, hears everything else fade away.

Then Messi stands up.

Neymar's heart is beating so fast that he thinks it's going to stop. The Argentines will help him. They won't let Enrique take him away. They won't abandon him after all.

*Messi* won't abandon him.

“Let go. Right now," Messi breathes, deadly serious. Neymar doesn't think he's ever heard Messi's voice like that, and it looks like Enrique hasn't either. But the guard doesn't move.

And then Messi changes his tactics.

"Unless you want us all to go and report what we just heard," Messi says as he takes a step closer, lowering his voice even further. "Guards molesting inmates?" He clucks his tongue. "Why, I don't think even the warden could allow you to stay here if that was known. Imagine the lawsuits… Then again, maybe he’d keep you on. Let the problem take care of itself? Because he certainly can’t protect you if that gets out in here.” His voice is cold, with a hint of amusement. "You'd never be safe here, ever again. I wonder how long you'd last... A week? Maybe. A day? More likely.”

It's a threat.

One that Enrique takes seriously because he releases his grip on Neymar's hair.

Neymar sinks to his knees again, the hardness of the concrete floor being nothing compared to the way his head is screaming. All he can do is blink up at Messi, and thank God over and over until his thoughts all blend together and he thinks God himself is standing in front of him. A god with dark hair and burning eyes—a god ready to fight all of heaven and earth to protect him.

Then again, Neymar might be in shock.

"Spaniard? Piqué’s favorite? Ramos has no problem taking care of himself, so that would mean you’re talking about the little one… Roberto, right?” Mascherano asks from where he's still standing next to Messi's chair. "That's the name of the kid with the shaggy hair. The one that looks like a puppy, ain't it?”

Neymar should probably say something, should probably move from where he’s kneeling on the floor, but he finds himself entirely too weak.

“Not just Piqué's favorite, either, is he? Ramos’ too, I’d say. He's well-liked around here. Not a bad guy, I think. And I rather think most of the Spaniards have taken him under their wing. They usually watch out for the kids,” Rojo says casually, leaning against the wall. "Xavi won't be happy at all, will he? And Iker?" He shakes his head, not needing to say anything more.

Agüero hacks and then spits on the floor. "Like 'em young, do ya?" He grins at Enrique, baring his teeth dangerously. "Thought you had a look about you." He sways on his toes a little, looking like he's just looking for an excuse to tear Enrique apart. "They always do," he murmurs in disgust.

"Shut up," Enrique snaps, pointing his baton at Agüero. He holds it out in front of him for a moment and then swings it to Messi when Agüero doesn't do anything else. "You can't prove anything. You weren't there. Those hallways are dark. Everyone knows that.” He flicks his eyes down to Neymar. “And Neymar's new, doesn't know all the faces yet. Mixes up names and faces all the time from what I hear. He could have seen any guard down there in that hallway. You don’t want to go about making any false accusations, now do you? It wasn't me."

Messi laughs softly, but he isn’t smiling. He tilts his head toward Di María.

Instantly, Di María straightens, scuffing his feet on the floor like he enjoys the sound. "I was there, too," he says. "I saw you. Recognized you immediately.” He widens his eyes and smiles innocently. “Oh, yes, Enrique for sure.”

Messi lets that sink in for a minute while Enrique looks furious. And then Messi tilts his head over to Lavezzi.

Lavezzi smirks. "I saw you, too," he adds, shrugging. "No mistaking it." He rubs his chin, scratching through his beard. "Clearly you. It was such a surprise too, because you’ve always been so proper. Tore me up inside to see such a transgression, such misconduct, such impropriety, even! I would have to report it at once.” He fakes a frown, his lower lip sticking out in an exaggerated pout before he adds a theatrical sob. “So terrible! Here I was, trying to jerk off in peace, and I came across such a scene!”

Enrique rolls his eyes, losing some of his anger. “As if that sounds truthful. You’re all liars. Everyone knows it. They won't believe you," he says confidently, looking from face to face. He returns his gaze to Messi. "Your word against mine. An honorable guard against the scum of society. I’m not worried. And we all know that Guardiola will vouch for me, make up some alibi if I ask him to. You think the warden will go against us?”

Neymar closes his eyes, slumping. He feels like his entire body is going numb. He knew it was too good to be true. He’ll still end up going with Enrique, and none of this will have mattered at all. He probably won't make it out of solitary, not with what he's seen.

"Are you sure?" Messi asks then, interrupting Neymar’s thoughts. His voice is still quiet. "Everybody knows I have no love for the Spaniards. Roberto, Piqué, Ramos? Why should I care about them or what happens to them? They aren’t mine and they never will be. I have no need to make up stories or lies to help them, to protect them. So if I say we saw something, the brass will believe it." He steps closer, dropping his hand to touch the top of Neymar's head.

Neymar's eyes fly open, lashes still wet with tears. He stares up at Messi, blinking slowly, feeling something strange in his chest.

It’s hope.

"And they *will* believe it, won't they," Messi adds, looking down at Neymar.

It’s not asked like a question.

Nothing ever is.

Messi’s expression is unreadable, no longer cold looking but still strangely distant. He meets Neymar's gaze and doesn't soften. Except then, his hand slides to the back of Neymar's head, gently pushing him forward until he’s coaxing Neymar to press his face into his thigh and relax. “I’ll make them believe it,” Messi promises, looking back up at Enrique, “if you fucking dare threaten what’s mine. If you touch him again, put your hands on him once more… Go ahead and try me. If you even look at him again, I’ll make you very, very, sorry. ”

Neymar takes a shaky breath, mashing his face against Messi's leg and feeling his tears dry against the fabric of Messi's jeans. Messi's hand returns to the top of Neymar's head, fingers carefully carding though his curls like he’s trying to ease Neymar’s pain. It's so completely the opposite of how Enrique had just touched him that Neymar can't help but wrap his arms around Messi's leg in relief.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Neymar murmurs half to Messi, half in prayer, nuzzling Messi's thigh in search of comfort.

Enrique laughs. "Think you rule this place, don't you?" He takes a step closer to Messi, ignoring Neymar at their feet. Masche takes a step forward then too, and Enrique looks at him in warning before he stares at Messi again. “It’s amazing how delusional some of you get in here, like you think you’re a king in your castle instead of locked in your room every night like a child.”

Messi’s hand never stops moving through Neymar’s hair.

“I think you have no idea what I’m thinking,” Messi says calmly, and Enrique’s smile slowly disappears. “And I think you have no idea what I can really do.”

Agüero cackles madly then, manic grin in place as Enrique spins around, baton wavering as if he was genuinely startled.

“Mad,” Enrique mutters. “All of you are mad.” He turns his back on Agüero warily, eyes flicking over to Luis on the bed before finding Messi once more. “And I won’t forget this,” he spits out, glaring down at Neymar. “If you slip up, even once, you’ll be sorry. You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. Nobody is.”

Neymar doesn’t move, not sure if the threat is directed at him or Messi, but regardless, he knows that he should keep quiet.

Messi’s soft voice is easily heard throughout the cell. “I’m rarely sorry.” Then it sharpens. “So get the fuck out.”

Neymar can't really believe it. Even with everything that he's seen and heard, he can't really believe that Enrique leaves without another word. But the guard does. And then they're left alone, the atmosphere immediately changing into one that's significantly less tense. Still, it's quiet, anger and danger simmering in the air, Neymar doesn't let go of Messi's leg. He keeps his face pressed against him, focuses on catching his breath again.

Messi's hand slides down the back of Neymar's neck, settling there possessively. It feels hot on Neymar's skin, so hot, fingers curled over the arch of his neck like they belong there.

Neymar shivers in response, adrenaline still pumping through his body. He's coming down now, becoming aware of the fact that he's sweating, body still bare to the waist, clinging to Messi in front of the rest of their group. His shirt is somewhere on the ground behind him where Enrique threw it, and he imagines his hair is sticking up every which way. He doesn't know what he looks like--or if he should be ashamed of the way he's cowering.

He should care.

But he doesn't.

"Well that was fun," Lavezzi says, clapping his hands together and breaking some more of the tension. "I'm going to go shower now. Let me know who else you want to piss off, okay, Ney?" He laughs to himself before heading out into the hallway, back to his jovial self now that Enrique is gone.

Masche grumbles from beside them. "You shouldn't have said anything. Should have just let it happen," he says to Neymar. "What does it matter what happens to one of the Spaniards? Keep your head down and stop causing trouble for us." His glare is firmly in place, tone dripping with disdain. "More trouble than you're worth at this point."

Neymar is used to Masche's venom, but he shakes his head. He thinks about the way Enrique had pressed Roberto against the wall. "I couldn't just keep walking. I couldn't do nothing," he whispers, unable to forget the way the boy was shaking. "He--he was crying." He shakes his head again, resting his cheek against Messi's thigh. The fabric should be rough, but instead, it's the opposite. It's soft from age and Neymar wants to rub his face into it over and over. "I couldn't let it happen. Not like Rafa."

He thinks about Rafa again, feels such a longing for his friend. He's lost count of how many days it's been since he's seen him, talked to him, hugged him... But it's been made pretty clear to him that his time with the Brazilians is over. And now he belongs here.

Messi's hand is still on the back of his neck, fingertips gently moving back and forth.

"Alves will take care of his whore," Masche says, leaning against the desk. "If there's one thing you can be sure of, it's that. But you? You need to toughen up.“ He laughs. "So Roberto was crying, big fucking deal. You cry all the fucking time--doesn't mean anything. Still not a reason to get involved. It's not our business. Let the Spaniards deal with it."

Neymar closes his eyes. He's too tired to argue. But if he had to do it again, he would still interfere. He would still try to help Roberto, still try to stop Enrique, still run to Messi for protection.

"Enough," Messi says then, and Masche falls silent.

Messi's hand is joined by a second, both of them sliding down Neymar's neck to his shoulders, comfortably dropping to spread across Neymar's upper back. "What's done is done," Messi says, seeming unbothered. "Go shower."

Neymar opens his eyes, but apparently, the order is not directed at him. Because Messi's hands stay where they are, holding Neymar where he is--kneeling on the floor at Messi's feet.

The others shuffle by them, Masche raising an eyebrow before walking out of the cell. But he doesn't care enough to argue with Messi--even if he's one of the few who actually has the power to do so. Agüero is the other, and he lingers like he wants to stay. But in the end, he follows Rojo and Di María. Luis stays where he is on the bed, hand against his ribs, watching Neymar worryingly, and Neymar wonders if Messi will make him leave. Especially when Messi's hands slide up his shoulders and back into his hair as if he's considering something.

Is this... the moment?

Neymar licks his lips, waiting for Messi to tilt his face up.

But before Neymar can think anymore, and before Messi can do anything else, Ronaldo interrupts them. Neymar's quickening pulse immediately starts to calm down again, and he lets out a little sigh of what he thinks is disappointment. Or relief. He's not sure exactly what it is.

"Trouble?" Ronaldo drawls loudly, from the doorway. His arms are crossed as he leans against the wall and he looks like he's a model posing in a magazine. "Heard Enrique was on the warpath. But you look like you have things under control." He doesn't wait for an answer and strides uninvited into the cell. "A pity, really," he says, clearly meaning the opposite.

Luis huffs. And then the bed creaks as he slowly rolls over to face the wall, already tired of Ronaldo within a few seconds.

Messi's hands continue to play with Neymar's hair. It's more absentmindedly now as opposed to caressing. "What have you heard?" he asks, slightly intrigued, as Ronaldo draws closer to him. "It was only Enrique, anyway. Not Guardiola this time. More's the pity," he adds, with a touch of venom.

Neymar wonders if there's a story there--if there's a reason why Messi and Guardiola hate each other so much.

Ronaldo chuckles like he enjoys Messi's tone. Perhaps he does. "Heard your bitch is on his shit list now," he says joyfully. "Too bad, huh? I told you not to get too attached. You might have to put him down one of these days. The runts never last, do they?"

Messi hums, even as Neymar tries not to bristle. "We'll see," he says, sounding satisfied. "You'd think that Enrique would have learned not to cross me by now. He's gotten cocky lately. I don't know why. Maybe Guardiola's got something in the works." He pauses. "You hear anything else?"

Neymar can feel Ronaldo's eyes on him as he answers, "No," but since Messi gives no sign he wants Neymar to leave, he stays where he is. He shifts where he's sitting on his ankles, trying to get more comfortable. But he keeps his face pressed against Messi's thigh, enjoying how warm it is. And he keeps his arms wrapped around Messi's leg, somehow feeling entirely secure.

It's what gives him the strength to stay where he is when Ronaldo says, "Is he humping your leg or what?"

Messi doesn't seem to care. "He's fine," he says quietly. "And..." There's silence then, like he's trying to choose his words carefully. His pause grows longer, and with it the suspense. It's a different kind of silence than what is usually between them, and everyone seems to know it.

"Leo?" Ronaldo asks, for once sounding surprised. "What is it?"

Messi sighs then. Neymar flicks his gaze up in time to catch what looks like a moment of regret. "It's time," Messi murmurs, staring at Ronaldo. "No more. No more of this."

Neymar doesn't quite get it.

Ronaldo laughs. "Shut the fuck up. Don't play around. I told you before--I'm not one of your lackeys. You can pull shit with them, alright, but not with me." And when Messi doesn't say anything immediately, Ronaldo takes a step closer, diamond earring catching the light. "I mean it, Leo."

Messi doesn't move, doesn't even change the way his fingers are curling through Neymar's hair. "It was never going to be forever, Cristiano," Messi says quietly. "You knew that. You’ve always known that. And now, it’s time to end it.”

And then, even quieter, like it's a secret, "You made me a promise, once."

Ronaldo takes a step back like he's genuinely shocked, feet skidding on the gritty floor. "Fuck me, you're serious." He laughs nervously, clearly rattled. "Well, shit." He paces a little in the cell, taking a deep breath before he comes to a stop. "I can't fucking believe it. Really though? After all this time... You don't need to remind me of my promise, you know. I just--I always thought you were gonna give in one day.”

Messi laughs then, and it's warmer. It's genuine, close to the laugh Neymar heard when he fell off the bed that one time. Neymar likes the sound of it, even if it isn't directed at him. He wants to hear it again. "You always were the optimistic one,” Messi says, and Neymar thinks there’s a touch of fondness there.

Who's he kidding? There is fondness there. Neymar's always been able to see that there's something between Ronaldo and Messi, no matter how weird it is to see these two rough men together. He wants to know more about their past, but at the same time he’s afraid of it. What James told him was only the bare bones of their story, he’s sure. For them to have continued this—odd relationship— on, even in prison, after all this time…

It means that the feelings were stronger than either of them really wanted to admit.

But apparently, Messi's reached some sort of breaking point.

“Optimistic?" Ronaldo looks up at the ceiling. "I was. And you loved it," Ronaldo continues roughly, losing control for a moment. "You fucking loved it. Don't you dare try to tell me otherwise."

Messi's hands stop moving then. "I did," he admits softly. "But, times have changed. We can’t go back to the way things were, and there’s no point in stringing this along any more than we have. It’s been long enough.”

He says it confidently, like they both know it. And since Ronaldo doesn't really fight him on that, Neymar thinks it must be true. James hadn't lied to him--Messi and Ronaldo were only continuing because of some sentimental bullshit.

"So that's it," Ronaldo says, sounding strange. "I was so sure you'd give in, you know,” he says again. He approaches Messi, looming over him like he always does, energy simmering beneath his skin. "So sure. You can fool the others, but not me. You could never fool me," he says cockily. "I've always known what you wanted."

Neymar can feel how close he is, feel the heat from his body up against his back. And for some reason, he feels instantly protective of Messi. It's an absurd thought, because Ronaldo could probably snap him in half Iike a twig, and Messi certainly doesn't need any help from Neymar to defend himself... But still, Neymar hugs Messi's leg a little tighter, as if he can remind Messi that he's still there, still watching them--ready to interfere if needed.

And maybe he does look he's humping Messi's leg, but too fucking bad.

“You missed it. I know you did. You missed getting fucked," Ronaldo continues, biting off the last syllable, amusement coloring his tone. “Oh, yes. You definitely missed getting fucked by me. Every night when I kissed you, you thought about it. Thought about just letting go and giving in—I’m positive of that.”

Neymar's getting... Well, he's getting a little hard thinking about it--about Ronaldo and Messi together... He hopes that Messi can't feel his dick against his leg.

But if Messi does, he doesn't say anything. Of course, Messi doesn’t say anything in response to Ronaldo either.

So he probably does feel it.

Ronaldo laughs again, fingers tilting Messi’s chin up. “You remember how it felt, don't you, Leo? Go on, you can tell me,” he coaxes. “Nobody else is here. They never need to know how much you missed my dick. And I’m sure your pets will stay quiet,“ he adds as an afterthought. “If they know what’s good for them, that is. Either that or I’ll give them something to do with their mouths…”

Luis huffs again from over on the bed, making it clear that he's not asleep and is most definitely listening to the conversation.

Ronaldo just laughs slowly. "Go on," he says persuadingly, "say it. Say you still dream about it."

Neymar hears more than sees Messi roll his eyes. "Enough, Cristiano. Go back to your little Colombian," Messi says, hands sliding down to Neymar's neck again, apparently finished with the conversation. “I’m sure he’s waiting for you. And don't bother me anymore."

"Yeah, yeah," Ronaldo says, grinning.

Neymar looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, surprised to see that Ronaldo now appears entirely fine with Messi’s decision. Though then again, Ronaldo has James, so it’s not like he’ll be alone for long.

Ronaldo catches him looking, grin disappearing as his face turns back to stone. "What are you looking at?"

Neymar thinks about mentioning James, but he decides he wants to keep on living to see another day. He turns his face back into Messi’s leg. He’s not really afraid, not with Messi here, but he’s trying to hide his own smile. He still peeks up at Ronaldo afterward, almost daring him to do something.

Of course, Ronaldo doesn't like that.

And of course, Neymar is fucking stupid to try to taunt him.

Because in the end, Neymar's the one who has to watch as Ronaldo smirks. He smirks like he’s trying to make a point, like he’s saying, “Watch this.”

And he is.

Because then Ronaldo leans in one final time to kiss Messi. And again, it’s effortless as they come together. A kiss they’ve kissed thousands of times. It's a kiss that screams sex. And not only that, it’s a kiss that tells of a history… of something so much more than what’s been seen inside these dirty prison walls.

It just as quick as it began, it ends. Softly, almost sweetly—if Neymar dares even use that word—with Ronaldo's hands on Messi's face.

With the two of them sharing breath.

Neymar hates it. He hates that he's witnessing this.

And then, despite his annoyance, Neymar feels something he never thought he'd feel for Ronaldo. He feels a great surge of pity. Because Ronaldo leans in again, hands cupping Messi's cheeks, lips parted for one last taste.

But Messi? Oh, Messi rebuffs him. He turns his head, not dislodging Ronaldo's hands, but moving just enough to make his feelings clear: no more.

Ronaldo closes his eyes as if pained. And then he drops his hands.

There's no more to be said after that. Messi doesn't say goodbye, and neither does Ronaldo. But Neymar thinks it's clearly goodbye, clearly the end of whatever was between them. The kiss... and the denied kiss... said all that needed to be said. And he doesn't know how he feels about that.

One thing for sure is that he feels slightly sick.

God, he feels sick and tired, going from one emotion to the next, barely able to hold up his head any longer. He just wants to sleep, but he knows that he can't.

Not yet.

When Ronaldo is gone, Messi returns his complete attention to Neymar, giving no sign that he’s bothered. His hands smooth up Neymar’s throat, thumb tracing Neymar’s tattoo, eventually finding Neymar’s face and nudging him to look up. “Are you hurt?” Messi asks, mask back in place, dark eyes showing nothing. He may have revealed something in his laugh, or his kiss, but everything is covered up again now.

Neymar can’t hide his feeling to save his life, so he only hopes that his confusion about Messi’s relationship with Ronaldo is somewhat disguised. He turns his attention to Messi’s question instead, welcoming the distraction. Neymar knows there are dried tear tracks on his face, and his nose is probably red from trying to hold it all back. He probably looks terrible. “Not really,” he says simply, arms still wrapped around Messi’s leg. “My head aches a little,” he adds, trying to be honest. “It hurt when he pulled my hair.”

Maybe it's childish to admit that, but it's too late now.

Messi nods, hands dropping down, smoothing over Neymar’s tattoo once before letting go. He reaches for Neymar’s hands, starting to try to free himself from Neymar’s grip. “Good. Off,” he instructs as if Neymar’s an animal, fingers tugging lightly.

“Wait!” Neymar exclaims, refusing to let go, taking a deep breath as Messi looks at him in surprise. “Wait, please,” Neymar pleads, trying to calm himself as Messi’s hands cease their movement. “I—I—,” Neymar tries, rattled again. Finally, he shuts his eyes tightly and nods to himself. “Thank you,” he says, opening them back up. “Thank you for helping me, for saving me. Thank you for not letting Enrique take me away.”

He doesn’t want to think of what would have happened.

He only knows that from now on, he has to be extremely careful not to get into any more trouble. He’s going to stick to the Argentines like glue, and not go anywhere alone. He doesn’t want to give the guards a chance to get him.

Or the Chileans.

Which reminds him…

Messi’s face is still blank as he processes Neymar’s words, but he tilts his head to the side. He doesn’t say “You’re welcome,” but he nods in a way that Neymar thinks might be acceptance.

“I trust you,” Neymar blurts out then, not sure how much time he has before the others all come back from their shower. “I do, I trust you. I’m sorry about before! I don’t want to lie, truly I don’t…” He hides his face against Messi’s thigh again. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he promises, meaning it with all his heart.

He’s fucked up so much, and he knows that.

But he’s not going to fuck up again. He’ll tell Messi everything that happened with Vidal and Medel and Jara—the truth about that day with Luis.

Messi’s hands go to his hair again. “I know you will,” he says quietly. “And now, you’re tired.” He strokes Neymar’s curls, careful not to pull on any of the hair. “When the others come back, you will go to dinner, and then you will rest.”

Messi’s hand feels so incredibly good that Neymar can’t even focus on anything. It’s like a balm over his aches. “I’ll tell you anything,” he finally mumbles into Messi’s thigh. “I have to tell you everything,” he corrects, eyes drooping, knowing that now is the time.

He can’t hold anything back.

“You will,” Messi acknowledges, again seeming entirely unconcerned. His hand continues to stroke through Neymar’s hair. And then, slightly out of character, “It’s alright,” he says like he's trying to to be reassuring.

“Should I tell you now?” Neymar asks, feeling like he could fall asleep right there, pressed up against Messi’s warmth.

There’s a commotion from the hallway then—Agüero and Rojo scuffling in the doorway.

“After,” Messi murmurs, hand finally dropping from Neymar’s hair. This time when he disentangles Neymar’s limbs from his leg, Neymar lets him. “Go eat. When you're finished, come back and you can tell me,” he says, stepping away from Neymar like he's going to talk to the others. "I'll be waiting," he adds a touch ominously, as if to remind Neymar that honesty isn't always a pleasant thing.

Neymar slouches on the concrete, waking up slightly at his tone. He doesn't know how Messi is going to react to the news of the Chileans, or the fact that Neymar's hidden it all for so long. “You aren’t coming?” he asks, shivering now that he’s kneeling alone. With everything going on, he’d forgotten that he’d slid out of his shirt to escape Enrique’s grasp. "I can stay here," he offers, stomach beginning to twist as it occurs to him that he's going to be without Messi's protection once he leaves this cell.

Messi’s eyes go to the hallway, either unaware of Neymar's fear or simply not caring. In any case, he shakes his head. “I’m getting some work done on my sleeve. You will eat and come back,” he says, hand smoothing over the bright flowers on his forearm.

He flicks his eyes over at Neymar and then turns to where Rojo is standing there waiting. “Don’t leave him alone,” Messi warns, a hint of danger in his voice.

Rojo pushes Agüero to the side and nods. “Of course, Leo,” he says obediently, gesturing for Neymar to join him. “It won’t happen again.” Di María clucks his tongue but doesn’t say anything. Lavezzi is there now too, hair wet from the shower, and he’s picked up Neymar’s shirt off the floor.

Neymar unsteadily gets to his feet, feeling a little woozy, as he realizes Rojo's in trouble for letting him out of his sight. But he goes to Lavezzi and lets himself be maneuvered back into his shirt. Lavezzi laughs, putting his arms into the sleeves like he's a child.

It’s stretched out even more now, but it doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is that Messi knows the truth.

So he goes to dinner. He numbly eats his mush. And then he heads back to Messi's cell. He's ready to let go, ready to spill everything. The truth will set him free, he's sure of it. 'It's all that matters, it's all that matters, it's all that matters,' he repeats over and over with each step he takes.

The problem is, as soon as Neymar enters, he realizes that Messi somehow *already* knows the truth.

And Neymar isn't the one who told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so belated on replying to comments, and I still have a ton of stories in my inbox to read and comment on. But I wanted to get this out since a lot of people are waiting for it. Hope you like it!


	20. Can Only Get Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Chileans,” Messi is saying slowly to Luis like he’s repeated it several times and still can’t believe it. “The Chileans. Jara. Medel. Vidal.” He says the last name with a little venom, as if incredibly repulsed by the syllables. “They’re the three, of course. The only ones who would try to cross me. Bravo doesn't have the guts and Sánchez has never cared.”
> 
> Neymar finds that he’s frozen in the doorway. Rojo’s behind him waiting, but Neymar can’t move to take more than a step inside the cell. He flicks his eyes over to where Luis is still on the bed. Could Luis have remembered? He was so out of it that day… But maybe he did remember. And of course, he’d tell Leo immediately.
> 
> But Luis appears confused, brows furrowed, and truthfully doesn’t look like someone who’s just revealed a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little belated bc I was working on Cressi week fic. Hope you enjoy xo

“The Chileans,” Messi is saying slowly to Luis like he’s repeated it several times and still can’t believe it. “The Chileans. Jara. Medel. Vidal.” He says the last name with a little venom, as if incredibly repulsed by the syllables. “They’re the three, of course. The only ones who would try to cross me. Bravo doesn't have the guts and Sánchez has never cared.”

Neymar finds that he’s frozen in the doorway. Rojo’s behind him waiting, but Neymar can’t move to take more than a step inside the cell. He flicks his eyes over to where Luis is still on the bed. Could Luis have remembered? He was so out of it that day… But maybe he did remember. And of course, he’d tell Leo immediately.

But Luis appears confused, brows furrowed, and truthfully doesn’t look like someone who’s just revealed a secret.

Messi turns his head anyway, face turning to stone as he catches Neymar’s eyes. He has no other reaction to Neymar’s presence. there’s no smile or frown, or even greeting. “Do you know how I survived this long?” he asks tonelessly instead. He straightens up to his full height and slides his hands into his pockets. “I told you once. But do you remember what I said?” 

Any warmth that was in his gaze is long gone now, and Neymar’s trying not to collapse.

“No,” Neymar whispers. And he can’t believe it. He remembers every conversation he’s ever had with Messi—he knows he does. He remembers every word, every look, every touch, and he’s gone over them a thousand times when he’s in his cell and he’s trying to fall asleep at night. But at the moment, he can’t remember any of them. He can’t remember a single thing Messi’s ever said to him. 

Messi looks like he’s dead inside and all Neymar can think of is how he must be responsible.

“Knowledge,” Messi prompts, sounding bored. 

The word sparks Neymar’s memories. And he remembers… It was after the incident with Guardiola and Enrique, after they’d they’d beaten Luis in front of him. It was after the Chileans had threatened to kill Luis. It was while he’d been sitting with Messi on the bed beside Luis.

Messi had been wiping Luis’ face. 

“You said, ‘Knowledge is power,’” Neymar blurts out. It had been about Neymar—their conversation. It had been about Messi knowing why Neymar was in prison. 

“Yes,” Messi says, though he doesn’t offer it as praise. “And do you remember the second part?” 

Neymar doesn’t. He doesn’t remember more than that. He wants to look over at Luis for help, but the power of Messi’s gaze is too strong. “No,” he says helplessly.

“You should,” Messi says quietly. “But despite how fucking angry I am right now, I’m going to tell you again.” He moves over to the desk, to his chair, sitting down and spreading his legs as is his habit. “Because it’s fairly important, and from this day onward you’d better remember it.”

Neymar takes a step forward, swaying toward Messi to hear him better. 

Messi doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t sound angry either. And if he hadn’t just said he was, Neymar wouldn’t have guessed. Messi’s posture is relaxed, legs stretched out lazily, fingers tapping on his knee one by one like he’s counting to five.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five. 

They’re five long seconds of silence, and Neymar tries not to hold his breath. His heart is pounding faster than Messi’s fingers are tapping, and he knows that isn’t a good thing.

“I said, ‘I have people everywhere,’” Messi says slowly.

Neymar hears him, hears the words that are coming out of his mouth, but he still doesn’t understand. 

And then Messi stretches his arm out—the one with the sleeve tattoo. There’s a new bandage there, specifically in a spot where there were once only black swirls and geometric designs. Neymar’s nearly memorized them all, having spent countless hours staring at them. Messi reaches down and begins to carefully peel the bandage off until a bright new flower is revealed. 

It’s pink.

“The German is one of mine,” Messi explains then, idly looking down at his pink flower. He looks bored as one of his fingers traces around the design. “I helped protect him from the other Germans and in return, he tells me what he hears.” He tilts his head up to look at Neymar. “You’d be surprised at what people tell him. He listens and learns, is privy to all sorts of things. Their troubles, their wants…” He trails off and looks at Neymar pointedly. “What they’ve gotten away with.”

Neymar’s heart is pounding. 

“And Mats is the only artist available,” Messi continues, crumpling up the bandage into a ball and then tossing it onto the windowsill. “Everyone goes to him. The guards. The Spaniards.” His voice turns colder. “Everyone,” he repeats, “including the Chileans.”

The bed creaks as Luis sits up. “Leo,” he says quietly, sensing danger. “He was going to tell you, Leo. He said so earlier, before dinner. He wanted to tell you. He promised to tell you.” Luis’ voice is soothing, trying to calm Messi before things escalate.

But it might be too late.

Messi turns his head in Luis’ direction and Luis falls silent. “He did say that, didn’t he,” Messi says then, fingers tapping on his knee. “But then again, Neymar’s said a lot of things, hasn’t he. He said he was your friend, for one,” Messi says, eyes now on Luis’. “He told me that, you know. Right to my face. And yet, with his silence about that day, he’s protected those who wanted to kill you.”

Luis’ throat works soundlessly, pain crossing his features. He shakes his head a bit as if he’s unfocused trying to think of what to say.

“You don’t remember,” Messi says then, gentling his tone in the way he only ever does for Luis. “Because you were too busy bleeding all over the ground. Because you stood up for him when Guardiola and Enrique came for him, took the blows that so easily could have been his.” He looks like he pities Luis, sadness flickering through his gaze before it’s hidden. “And so you don’t remember that Vidal looked at you and smiled. Wanted to kill you right then and there. Neymar kept that to himself. Didn’t he? He cared more about himself than you.”

Luis turns his eyes to Neymar, looking smaller than he ever has. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t accuse Neymar or ask if it’s true. He swallows like he’s accepting it, like he should have expected this.

“That’s not—,” Neymar chokes out, “that’s not what happened.” His hands are wringing together nervously, and all he can think is that he doesn’t know how to fix this. But he has to fix it. He needs to explain it, needs to explain that he had made a deal. It hadn’t been about protecting himself—not really! It had been about keeping the peace, about keeping them safe… His silence had been his only weapon against the Chileans!

Messi turns back to Neymar. “No?” he asks calmly. “You told me the truth? About who hit you? About what was said? About the Chileans trying to kill Luis?”

Neymar licks his lips. “Well, I mean no, but—,” he tries.

“No,” Messi says then. “You let me think it was Enrique and Guardiola. You didn’t tell me the truth. Because if you had told me, I would have dealt with it. Knowledge is power, but so is action.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands squeezing into fists viciously. “I would have fucking killed those men.” There’s anger in his voice now. The quiet fury is building, bubbling, simmering beneath his skin. “Not another day would have gone by with them still breathing, Neymar.”

“Ney,” Luis starts, and Neymar’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he falters when Messi raises a hand.

“I don’t give a fuck what you were trying to do,” Messi says. “But let’s get one thing straight. You fucked up. And because of that, you’re lucky to be alive. And Luis is lucky to be alive. Are you listening to me?” He sits back in his chair again, furious. “Do you want to die? How many free passes do you want, huh? How long is it going to take before you realize where you are? Wake the fuck up, Jesus Christ.” 

Luis is moving on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking as his knees shuffle over the mattress, but Neymar’s still staring at Messi, the words ringing in his head.

“Imagine trusting the Chileans more than me,” Messi spits out, flexing his fingers before curling them back into fists. “The Chileans, who know that you’ve stayed quiet. They know that you don’t value Luis’ life, or any of our lives. They know that you only care about yourself. And worse than that, they’ve not kept their mouths shut! Oh, no, they’ve had no reason to. Why should they? They’re happy to talk about how you’re not so loyal after all.” 

Lavezzi and Di María are behind Rojo in the door now, hovering like they’re not willing to enter. Neymar thinks that Agüero and Masche are there too, but it’s not like they’re going to help him either.

But Messi’s not finished. “This is what I get for protecting you? This is your loyalty? Silence? Do you know how that makes *me* look? It makes me look weak," he says, utterly disgusted. "So many things now make sense to me—so many looks and whispers, so many upstarts who think they can challenge me—all of it because you kept your fucking mouth shut and didn’t come to me!”

“Leo, he was—,” Luis says, on his feet now, curled in on himself but looking desperate as he takes a few steps toward Messi.

“Be quiet!” Messi says angrily, banging his hand on his knee and turning away from Neymar to look directly at Luis. “Don’t you dare defend him!” 

Luis immediately falls to his knees, cringing, his body language becoming more animal-like as his distress increases. But Messi’s eyes are hard as they stare at Luis, waiting for total obedience. In response, Luis bows his head and shuffles closer, nearly trembling. Then very slowly, he puts his face against Messi’s leg. 

It’s silent in the cell and Neymar’s heart hurts as he watches what’s happening. It’s all because of him, and he knows it. His nails are digging into his palms but he finds that he can’t stop himself.

Messi’s hand falls into Luis’ hair, resting there, but doing no more. He stares downward and then takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs and then releasing it slowly. 

He doesn’t apologize. 

But the rage fades from his face, and when he turns back toward Neymar it’s like he’s made of stone again. “Marcos,” Messi says quietly, looking through Neymar like he’s not even there.

Rojo steps out from behind Neymar.

“Get him out of my sight. I'll deal with him tomorrow,” Messi says. His hand threads more into Luis’ hair, tugging his head up gently to rest on his knee and support him. It’s clear that whatever anger was directed at Luis is long gone. Luis must know that because although his eyes remain closed, he moves easily, arms wrapping around Messi’s shin for comfort. "And get me Kun."

*****

Neymar doesn't sleep.

How can he?

Rojo appears when it's time for breakfast, smacking his gum idly. "Well," he says, as Neymar follows him out of the cell, "you sure fucked up, didn't you?" They walk a few steps and then he adds, "Kun is positively gleeful about it, I must say."

Neymar's eyes hurt and he thinks he probably looks like a zombie. "Tell me something I don't know," he says, rubbing his face. He's starting to get a bit scruffy and the bristles feel funny beneath his fingertips. "You got any advice? For how to fix it with Messi. I don't give a shit about Agüero. "

Marcos blows a bubble and laughs. "Nah, man. You're on your own for this one." He shoulders past a few of the Spaniards, avoiding the way the group looks at him in disgust. "Explains a whole lotta shit, though. Have to say. And Leo is *pissed.*" He looks back to give Ramos the evil eye when it appears as though he's following them. "Haven't seen him this angry in ages. Not since Higuaín.“

Neymar focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and tries not to shiver as he remembers what happened to Higuaín. 

Lavezzi greets them at the doorway to the cafeteria, poking Neymar in the ribs and giving him a sorta smile. "Chin up, Ney. Can only get worse."

"That’s… not encouraging," Neymar mumbles, swatting his hand away. He looks over at their usual table and sees that Messi is already there. Neymar's usual spot is empty and Neymar cringes at the thought of having to sit next to Messi like everything's normal. "Can you," he says, grabbing Lavezzi's sleeve, "switch places with me?"

Messi's deep in conversation with Agüero on his other side, and he probably won't even notice. 

Even as he thinks that, he knows how stupid it sounds. Still, he tries to give Lavezzi the puppy dog eyes.

Lavezzi tilts his head in surprise. "I suppose," he says slowly. He looks like he's going to say something else but then drags Neymar into line to get food. "Your funeral," he mutters after they get their trays and wind their way back through the crowd to the table. He slides into Neymar's seat next to Messi, letting his tray clatter on the table.

Neymar takes a deep breath and starts to take Lavezzi's place. 

"No," Messi says then, dipping his spoon into his oatmeal. "Wrong." Neymar looks up, expecting Messi's responding to Masche or Rojo—or somebody, anybody who isn't him. Except then Messi looks directly at him. "That is not your seat," he says shortly. He tilts his head at Lavezzi expectantly and doesn't say anything more, eating a mouthful of his food.

Lavezzi instantly stands, shrugging at Neymar from across the table. 

Neymar stands too, hands shaking and rattling his silverware as he switches with Lavezzi. Messi doesn't look at him, immediately going back to a conversation with Agüero. It should make it easier for Neymar to eat in peace, but it doesn't. He can feel Messi's warmth beside him, as always, so hyperaware of how close their bodies are.

If Neymar's thigh moves a half inch, it'll touch Messi's.

But as the meal progresses, all Neymar feels is cold.

All of the progress he's made with Messi is gone. It's all gone. Messi doesn't speak to him. Doesn't look at him. Doesn't even talk about him. It's like he doesn't exist at all to Messi. So Neymar glumly eats his own food, every once in awhile listening to the conversation around him--even though nobody asks him anything.

"Where's Luis?" Neymar asks once, to Di María. He desperately needs to talk to his friend, needs to apologize and explain everything. He knows Luis will understand--Luis was ready to defend him against Messi last night, so that must mean something. But Luis isn't eating with them or anywhere in the cafeteria that Neymar can see.

Di María shrugs. But Rojo answers. "Staying in today." 

And there's no more said about that. But Neymar knows it's because of him. Either because Messi's keeping Luis out of the Chileans' sight, or because Luis doesn't want to see him at all. It's just another reason for Neymar to feel like crap. 

*****

Messi makes Neymar sit next to him out in the yard. 

Well, he doesn’t *make* Neymar so much as he sits down and then stares at Neymar with those cold eyes. Neymar doesn’t have the strength to see what would happen if he disobeyed, so he sits down where he’s supposed to. 

Masche is there too.

It makes it worse.

It's the same thing all over again. Messi doesn't speak to him or look at him. Messi talks to Masche instead. But he makes Neymar sit there, continuing this strange punishment. It makes Neymar long for Luis or Lavezzi—even for Adriano or Douglas—just because he wants someone to talk to. Off across the yard, Neymar can see some of the others looking back at them, but nobody comes to get him.

Agüero and Rojo have their heads together over near the fence, intently discussing something while eyeing the guards on the opposite wall. Di María is there at first, before wandering off to go speak to Zlatan. Lavezzi's speaking to some of the Brazilians at their table, strangely, ignoring the way that Casemiro and Lucas keep trying to intimidate him. Neymar can see Dani is there, with Marcelo and Rafa, an interested look on his face.

The Spaniards are over by the basketball hoop, but they aren’t playing. It’s unusual, and Neymar has to stare at them for a few minutes while he figures out why. Piqué and Ramos and Alba are in a clump, strangely motionless while Xavi and Iker look like they’re talking about something serious. Isco and Morata are hovering next to Pedro and Koke, but it’s not until Alba shifts to the side that Neymar can see Iniesta putting an arm around someone smaller.

With everything with Messi, Neymar had almost forgotten about what he’d seen down near the workroom. 

Roberto doesn’t look hurt. 

He doesn’t look like someone who’s been molested, and if Neymar didn’t know better, he’d assume nothing had ever happened. But Neymar does know better. He remembers the wide eyes filled with tears, the way Roberto was powerless. It makes Neymar wonder how many times Enrique’s done what he’s done. 

How many others there are. 

How many victims. 

How many inmates have had to suffer through Enrique’s advances. 

If there aren’t any physical marks left, then there’s no evidence of what takes place in dark corners around the prison. So no, Roberto doesn’t look like someone who’s been abused, but that doesn’t mean anything at all.

Neymar knows what he saw.

He won’t forget it.

And he’s positive that Roberto won’t either.

Roberto looks the opposite of how he did then. There’s no fear in his eyes now. If anything, he looks angry as he responds to something that one of the others says. Iniesta is nodding by his side, clearly supporting him, even though Neymar can tell that nobody else likes whatever it is. 

Ramos turns then, as if feeling Neymar’s eyes, meeting his gaze from across the yard. He looks thoughtful, scratching his jaw idly. Piqué looks over immediately after, drawn by Ramos’ movement, his usual amiable expression missing. Neither of them says anything—not that Neymar would be able to hear from so far away even if they did—and then as one, they dismissively turn back to their group. 

It’s weird seeing them so in sync, but Neymar doesn’t doubt for a second that they are. Especially when Roberto finishes his speech and both of them automatically step closer to enfold him into a protective embrace. It should look strange, the two giant men sandwiching the smaller one. Iker is talking again then, with the others nodding or chiming in every so often. But Roberto stays where he is, tucked into Piqué’s chest with Ramos pressed against his back. 

Neymar has to look away then, when he sees Piqué and Ramos share an identical look of rage. He shivers, not wanting to be anywhere near Enrique when those two find him. 

If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that Enrique’s time is coming.

When it's time for lunch, Neymar tries to dawdle, tries to put more space between him and Messi--dreading what will be another cold, silent meal. 

James dances into his space then, feet moving easily to some unheard music as the crowd streams around them toward the gate. "You look down," James coos, tugging on Neymar's wrist playfully. "I rather thought you'd be happy, now," he says, looking over his shoulder at where Ronaldo's finishing up a cigarette. He stares admiringly at the plume of smoke Ronaldo's just blown into the air above Quaresma's head before turning back to Neymar. "I've got Cris to myself now, and you've sorta got Messi, right?"

"Happy?" Neymar repeats. He glances over James' shoulder to see that Ronaldo's laughing about something with Pepe and Coentrão. "No. I'm far from happy," he admits. Whatever misery Ronaldo had felt about his 'breakup' with Messi, it's clear that he's merrily moved on now. As if to prove his point, Ronaldo grinds his cigarette into the cement and then strides over to join them.

"Don't talk to trash, James," Ronaldo says as he crowds up behind James, hands settling on James' waist and staying there possessively. "It'll ruin your appetite." His voice is gravelly and playful, like he knows all about what Messi's done to Neymar and he's laughing about it. Maybe he does. He’s always seemed to know an awful lot about what goes on with Messi.

Neymar lets the insult wash over him, not caring, but feeling utterly alone. 

Ronaldo opens his mouth to say something else—maybe to drive the dagger in even further—and Neymar waits wearily.

"Better not look in a mirror before you eat then," Rojo says suddenly, appearing at Neymar's hip. He snaps a bubble, smiling brightly at Ronaldo. "Seeing your face always make me want to puke," he adds, tilting his chin up in Ronaldo's direction like he wants to fight. Agüero is standing silently behind him, his own strange grin adding to the tension.

Despite his loneliness, Neymar can’t help the smile that comes to his face as Ronaldo's face starts to morph into one of rage.

But James diffusions the situation. He laughs easily, turning in Ronaldo's arms and getting up on his tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. "All this talk of food," he says pleasantly. "I am rather hungry." James strokes Ronaldo's jaw with his fingertips until he looks down at him. "Take me to lunch?" he asks.

Ronaldo's glare melts away, though his jaw stays tight. "Of course," he agrees, hands moving to stop James’ before pressing a kiss to his palm. He ignores the guffaw from Agüero and then steers them around Neymar and Rojo without another word, walking confidently off in the direction of the cafeteria.

James looks back and mouths something, but Neymar can't figure out what it is. 

If he's honest... he thinks James said, 'Be careful.'

But it's lost as Agüero and Rojo start to bicker. "Seeing your face always makes me want to puke," Agüero mimics, looking at Rojo and gagging. "What are you? Ten years old?" He shoves Rojo a little and starts to walk toward the gate. "Hi, I'm Marcos and I'm ten years old and I only know little boy insults because my IQ is--," he breaks off when Rojo catches up to him and tries to wrestle him to the ground. "Also my dick is really small!"

Neymar stares at the flailing limbs, only moving when Lavezzi reappears in the yard. "You guys coming, or what?" Lavezzi asks, sounding bored. "Only, it's warm mush day, and if you're not going to eat, then I want your servings. Okay?"

"You like warm mush?" Neymar asks, stepping around where Rojo is sitting on top of Agüero's chest. The actual physical fighting looks like to be over, with insults beginning again. They're hushed this time, the two of them with their faces really close together. Rojo's whispering something about violence into Agüero's ear and both of them are grinning madly, baring their teeth manically.

"Well," Lavezzi says thoughtfully, "it's better than cold mush." He shrugs and gestures for Neymar to go ahead of him.

Neymar can't really argue with that.

*****

Messi's coldness continues through lunch and Neymar knows he can't take it anymore.

He grabs Masche's arm as they're leaving the cafeteria, and it's something so out of character for him that all Masche does is stare at him in confusion. "I'm sick," Neymar blurts out, not even bothering to disguise his shaking. He's sweating now too all of a sudden, fingers slipping over Masche, and he knows he probably looks awful. "I'm sick," he repeats. "I can't, I can't work today. Please, I need to rest."

Masche looks down at where Neymar's holding his arm.

Neymar slowly lets go, wringing his hands together and trying to ignore how clammy they are. "Please," he says, not having to fake the way he feels. It's not hard either because he really is completely exhausted. He feels so anxious and nervous every time he thinks about sitting next to Messi again. 

Masche must agree that he looks like shit, because he flicks his eyes over Neymar's head and then nods. "Go back to your cell then," he says gruffly, like it's nothing to him, as he looks back at Neymar. "Don't expect any of us to do your share. You're gonna get docked pay for the day."

There's a lump in Neymar's throat at that, but all he can do is nod—this time trying to hide his relief. He sneaks his way through the crowds afterward, not making eye contact with anyone. His cell still isn't very homey, but truthfully he can't wait until he's safe there, and he practically runs down the last corridor in his haste. The darkness is welcoming, and he closes his eyes, just trying to breathe and calm down.

It's probably a minute later when he opens them and realizes that Messi is sitting on his bed and staring at him.

Neymar can't help the scream that escapes. But whatever sound he makes is instantly bitten off as Messi stands and starts walking toward him. Neymar's turned, all of a sudden claustrophobic in the tiny room, and the doorway's too far away for him to make a break for it. He nearly trips over his own feet as he tries to move away, sliding on the gritty floor as he tries to put some space between him and Messi, but there's nowhere to hide as Messi walks closer and closer.

Neymar tries to breathe, tries to focus on that, tries not to die as Messi slowly backs him all the way up against the wall.

The wall's cold, and Neymar can feel the cracks in the stone through his thin t-shirt. But worse than that, he can feel how hot Messi is, pressed up against his front. He’s imagined this scenario a thousand times, but it’s never been like this—never with this uncertainty. They're closer than they've ever been before, and Neymar's paralyzed with fear.

Messi must feel it. He has to feel it. But he doesn't say anything. He lets Neymar panic, lets Neymar's freak out like it amuses him. Maybe it does. Maybe he likes it. It's too dark to see if he smiles, but there's a sliver of light that falls on his face and shows the creases around his eyes.

Neymar can't speak.

But Messi can. "You don't get to try to avoid me," Messi says softly, surprising him. He considers Neymar for a moment. Then he raises a hand, fingers beginning to toy with Neymar's chin, rubbing against the short scruff that’s beginning to appear. "I decide what you get to do. Not you." 

He lets that sink in, watching the way Neymar's throat moves. 

"You've forgotten where you are again. Wake up," Messi says, dropping his hand. "I decide what you get to do, and when you get to do it. So you'll sit where I tell you to sit. And you'll go where I tell you to go. If you have a problem with that, too fucking bad."

Neymar can hear some noise down the hall from them, but he doesn't look away from Messi's eyes.

"And if you pull this sort of stunt again,” Messi whispers, “maybe I'll that decide I'm finished with you. Do you understand?" His eyes are glacial, and he takes a step back. The light streams across his neck now, and his face is completely shadowed. "You'll be on your own. Without my protection. Do you want that?“

Neymar takes a shuddering breath. He can't speak, so he tries to shake his head.

Messi leans in again, hands cradling Neymar's jaw and then sliding up to his cheeks. "I'll give you some time to think it over," he whispers. His thumb smooths over Neymar's mouth, brushing Neymar's bottom lip. "I expect you back with us after work. And I expect you to obey." His fingers make their way up into Neymar's hair, curling into the strands gently, caressing and petting like their conversation has been entirely pleasant. "Don't disappoint me."

And then he's gone.

*****

After a brief crying fit in his cell, Neymar sits on his bunk and composes himself. 

The thing is, he knows he can get through this. Messi is punishing him—he’s well aware of that. If he can just get through this, if he can just get Messi to forgive him… 

First, forgiveness, and then whatever comes next. 

Acceptance? 

Friendship? 

Neymar doesn't know what it is, but he knows that he had it once before. He was getting along with the group. He was fitting in and finding his place. He was friends with Luis, with Lavezzi, doing okay with Rojo and Di María, somewhat tolerated by Agüero and Masche. But most of all, he was *something* with Messi. He needs to get back to that. 

Neymar rubs his hands over his face, the ghost of Messi's touch something he can't erase. 

When the bell rings signaling the end of the work period, Neymar takes a deep breath and exits his cell. He feels like he’s waking up after a long nap, and the light in the hallway hurts his eyes. But he pushes on. He'll meet the rest of the group at the showers, and he'll show Messi he's not a disappointment. 

He can do it.

And that's the thought that gets him through the hallways. He ignores a few whispers and laughs from those he passes—Zlatan and some of the Spaniards, maybe even a few of the Uruguayans. Lavezzi winks at him as he enters the bathing area, the other man stripping off his clothes gleefully and tossing them at Agüero. Rojo's there too, deep in conversation with Di María, the two of them looking serious and barely paying Neymar any attention. 

Neymar doesn't see Messi or Masche, but maybe they're already showering.

He adds his clothing to their usual area, assuming Di María will be watching their things. And then he strides into the showers. 

Messi isn't in the room, Neymar eventually notices, though Masche is. Neymar takes a deep breath, wondering if Masche knows about Messi's conversation with him. Then he decides that it doesn't matter, and he's going to be mature about this. He stiffly walks across the tiles and takes the shower beside Masche, knowing that's what he should do. He ignores a few other whispers and whistles, and busies himself with shampooing, fighting the urge to look around. 

As he rinses, sticking his head into the stream, he wonders if he’ll ever be comfortable showering here.

When he needs to breathe, he tips his head out of the water. Wiping his eyes and taking a quick peek around (as always, keeping his eyes above waist level), he notes that the showers are actually pretty empty today. He unconsciously relaxes, knowing that it means fewer people are looking at him.

Though, of course, his three favorite Chileans are there.

And Jara is most definitely looking.

Neymar can feel his creepy gaze from across the room, and no matter how much he ignores it, he can't forget about it. He was probably one of the earlier whistles, and Neymar shudders. Jara makes his skin crawl, just as he always has, and Neymar tries to finish his routine as quick as possible. 

He wants to get out of there.

He's so focused on that, on scrubbing himself with soap, that he doesn't realize how close Jara's gotten until it's too late.

"Heard you might be up for grabs," Jara whispers, undoubtedly having heard about his bust-up with Messi. A wet hand starts sliding down Neymar's spine, fully intent on taking what it wants. “Why wait until it's official? A little foreplay never hurt anyone." His breath is hot and disgusting on the back of Neymar’s neck, lips nearly touching the skin.

Neymar has a moment of absolute panic. 

He forgets where he is or what he’s doing. Everything goes out of his head, until the only thing he can remember is the way Roberto had frozen against the wall, tears streaming from his eyes, lips pressed together with fear. 

That’s not going to be him. 

That’s not going to happen to him. 

So Neymar drops the bar of soap he's holding and then drives his elbow back into Jara’s throat. And while the other man is gasping, having not expected the move, Neymar spins around and shoves him. And he’s not that strong. But he pushes Jara as hard as he can, fully intent on getting the other man away from him.

Everything happens in slow motion after that. Jara skids backward, trying to regain his balance on the wet tiled floor. His bare feet slip almost immediately, and his arms start to windmill as he fights to stay upward. Jara's face goes from rage to shock, and just when it looks like he might steady himself, he steps on the bar of soap that Neymar had dropped. 

When Jara's body hits the floor, Neymar's still not sure what's happened. The sickening thud is something Neymar could never try to describe, but he knows it’s something he never wants to hear again. 

There’s no blood.

But Jara's eyes are open, and his neck is at a strange angle—twisted in a way that it shouldn’t be. 

And Neymar knows instantly that he's dead.

What little talking around him ceases immediately. The whole room goes silent, and the sound of the running water becomes louder than ever. Neymar’s frozen in place, his shower spraying down over his back and shoulders, streaming down his body as he looks down at Jara in confusion. He should do something, he knows, he should say something—because it was an accident, he didn’t mean for it to happen, really he didn’t. The room is hazy with steam and when he looks up searching for a friendly face, everything starts to blur as the reality of what he’s just done sets in. 

Especially when Vidal starts screaming at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh yeah that Chilean dead...


	21. It's Not The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jara is definitely dead. 
> 
> That much is clear.
> 
> The thing is, Neymar doesn’t fucking care that much.
> 
> He’s not scared. Or angry. Or grossed out. He doesn’t know what he is. He should have some reaction. But it’s not the first time he’s seen a dead body at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been a little burned out since Cressi week, admittedly. I still have so many stories to read and comment from then, and I feel bad I haven't gotten around to that yet. My own stories have suffered too, with a lack of time to write as well as a lack of energy. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I think I'll be able to get back into a regular schedule now.
> 
> This chapter is a little longer than normal as an apology. It's also a little dark. New tags have been added to this story since I started posting, so look them over if you have triggers. We're talking faux sexual assault in this chapter. But trust me, I might scare Neymar a lot, but I won't really hurt him too badly.
> 
>  
> 
> [Art by the amazing fulldazeobjec](https://fulldazeobjec.tumblr.com/)

Neymar blinks.

Tries counting to ten in his head and then blinks again.

Nothing changes. Not that he expected it would. But it was worth a try. Probably. Maybe.

Vidal is still screaming at him, mouth opening and closing as he shouts expletives and threats (or, what Neymar assumes are expletives and threats). The Chilean’s face is red with rage and he’s nearly frothing, spit flying from his lips while his hands fling this way and that. He’s pointing at Neymar, shoving other people out of the way so he can cross the room, nearly slipping across the tile in his haste.

And people most definitely get out of his way.

But Neymar can’t hear him.

He can’t hear a single word Vidal’s saying.

He can’t hear the water anymore either. He should be able to. He should be able to hear the rushing of the showers, the sound of the water hitting the tiles, the sound of it gurgling down the drain. But he can’t hear it. All he can hear is a strange buzzing, some sort of white noise around him—a ringing in his ears that drowns everything out, one that gets louder and louder as he flicks his eyes down to look at Jara’s body.

Jara is definitely dead.

That much is clear.

The thing is, Neymar doesn’t fucking care that much.

He’s not scared. Or angry. Or grossed out. He doesn’t know what he is. He should have some reaction. But it’s not the first time he’s seen a dead body at his feet.

Señor Santos had been the first.

Neymar’s tried to block most of what happened out of his mind, and even now he can’t really recall how many bullet holes were in the man, but he remembers the feeling of the cold metal gun. He remembers how he flinched when his father had pressed it into his hands. And more than that, he remembers the vivid color of the blood spilling out of Señor Santos’ chest, stark against the man’s white shirt. And the screaming.

He remembers the screaming.

Then, of course, there was Higuaín.

Higuaín had been the second. For having only seen him for a few minutes, Neymar remembers much more about him. He remembers the way Higuaín had looked at him, judged him, catcalled him. He remembers the shocked look in Higuaín’s eyes as the life had bled out of him. There had been more blood then. Way more than Santos. So much of it that Neymar had been afraid that it was going to wash over his shoes as he stood there in the holding cell. There had been streaks of it across Messi, too. The dark red drops splattered across his pale skin like paint.

There’s no blood around Jara.

Neymar stares down at him, fixating on the ugly angle of his neck. He wonders, as his gaze moves onto the wet tiles under Jara, if it’s less real because there’s no blood.

But that doesn’t make Jara any less dead, now does it?

And then Vidal’s there, hands shaking his shoulders, shoving Neymar back against the wall like he wants to throw him through the tile. Neymar narrowly misses slamming the back of his skull into the shower head as his back and shoulders take the brunt of the impact. He’s sure that his back is going to be black and blue within the hour.

If he lives that long.

Suddenly Neymar can hear again.

Maybe it’s the force of the blow, or the shock slowly leaving his system. Is that how shock works? Neymar doesn’t know. But he can hear now, for what it’s worth. He can hear the threats, hear Vidal’s shrieking just as he can feel his spit hitting his cheeks.

“You’re dead! Do you hear me?” Vidal is shouting, pressed up against him, slick skin to slick skin, dangling bits and all. They’re both still dripping wet from the showers, hot with sweat and adrenaline, and Neymar should have more of a reaction. Neymar should do something, he knows, he should say something, should protest, should beg…

His eyes go to the cross with wings on Vidal’s throat. It’s different from what he knows is the German’s style. This tattoo is colorless and only dark lines, thick with ink and yet still incredibly impressive. There are other tattoos on his body, black swirls down his chest and arms, but Neymar focuses on the cross.

How fortunate that Vidal chose such an image.

And incredibly fitting that it’ll be the last thing Neymar sees.

Because Neymar doesn’t know much, but he knows that Vidal will kill him for this. That he knows for sure. Even now, there are nails digging into Neymar’s shoulder, breaking the skin despite how blunt they are. Painfully drawing blood that runs down his body to mix into Jara’s. And yet, Neymar doesn’t protest. Instead, he closes his eyes as Vidal pulls back a fist. He deserves this, after all. He’s just killed a man, killed Vidal’s friend, and he deserves to pay the price for it.

But despite hearing the thud of Vidal’s hand smacking against skin, it somehow never connects.

Neymar opens his eyes to see Masche’s caught it in his hand.

Vidal’s snarling something, fingernails of his other hand still clawing into Neymar’s shoulder. “What the fuck—!” he growls, baring his teeth as he turns furiously on Masche.

Masche looks grim.

He always looks grim, Neymar thinks absentmindedly. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Masche look otherwise, but there’s something about Masche’s face that’s out of the ordinary. Something different about the grimness, about the twist of his lips.

It’s serious. Dangerous maybe. And truthfully, Neymar doesn’t focus on that too much, because he’s way too relieved to see him standing there. Neymar had forgotten all about him. He’d thought that he was alone against Vidal. Turns out, he was wrong. Because Masche is there and for whatever reason, he’s on Neymar’s side.

And maybe, just maybe, Neymar isn’t going to die today.

Masche’s clearly struggling to keep ahold of Vidal’s fist with his one hand, the veins in his neck throbbing and his bicep straining. He’s a smaller build, but he’s made of stone and refuses to give up. Somehow, despite his size, he’s winning, and Vidal can’t seem to regain control. Neymar would be giddy if he could feel anything other than numbness, but as it is, all he can do is stand there and watch incredulously.

Masche doesn’t say anything. Just stares at Vidal.

And then there’s a flash of silver as his other hand appears.

Neymar half wants to warn Vidal. His natural reaction is to try to save the man, and he’s not sure what that says about himself. Even as Vidal’s fingernails curl deeper into his shoulder, Neymar opens his mouth to say something. But the words are stuck in his throat, and any sound he makes isn’t enough to stop what has already been set into motion. The blade is small, but it does the job.

Neymar can barely see it as it slices across Vidal’s throat. It’s quick and easy, without meeting any resistance, like Masche’s done this before. And it’s followed by a sea of red.

Dark red.

Blood red.

Vidal’s eyes are wide and his hands come up to clutch at his throat as he gurgles, spraying blood up into the air in front of them. It’s too late for him then, Neymar knows. There’s no coming back from that, and every second Vidal tries to save himself is fruitless. Neymar can only blink as Vidal takes a step backward, unsteadily, nearly tripping over Jara’s body, gasping and gurgling, red streaming through his fingers and down his chest, mixing with the water on the floor.

Neymar watches, hearing the ringing in his ears again.

This is more what death should be, he thinks numbly, his shoulder suddenly aching as he watches Vidal collapse onto his knees. This is more like the others. More like Santos. More like Higuaín. Life being drained out of someone right in front of his eyes…

Neymar’s relieved when Vidal finally slumps over and stops moving.

For a second, he thinks things are better. Even now, the water from the showers is diluting the blood, changing the color from dark red to pink before the water goes down the drain. But then he moves his eyes from the disappearing blood up to Vidal and he cringes. Vidal’s throat is a mess, a gaping wound that looks like something out of a horror movie.

Neymar gags slightly, turning his head and trying not to throw up. He doesn’t remember it being that way with Higuaín, so disgusting that he has to close his eyes.

“Rinse off,” Masche says coldly, and Neymar has to breathe again.

He looks over to see the little knife being placed near Jara’s hand on the floor. It must clink on the tile, but even though he’s regained his hearing, Neymar can’t the sound of it over the rushing water. Still, he shivers as, after a second of deliberation, Masche tucks the silver between Jara’s fingers. “Rinse off, I said,” Masche repeats, somewhat louder when Neymar doesn’t move.

Neymar nods, now fighting nausea while trying to figure out if it’ll be believable that Jara killed Vidal. Killed Vidal and then slipped accidentally. Fights do happen, especially within cliques, but Jara and Vidal had always seemed like they were on good terms. And if a witness steps forward…

The guards might not buy it.

Guardiola might not buy it.

Neymar’s not sure it’s believable, but he can’t think about it now. He’s gotta get out of there. Gotta get away from everything. He doesn’t look down at himself, doesn’t want to see if Vidal’s blood is on his body. Instead, he mechanically soaps himself off, rinsing quickly, and when he’s finished, he steps to the side. “What—,” he chokes out, “what do we do?” He has to actively use his peripheral vision so that he doesn’t step on a body.

There are too many dead bodies.

And the soap that Jara slipped on is almost touching his toes.

Neymar doesn’t dare pick it up.

The guards aren’t there, and Neymar doesn’t know why. The should be here, should have come in as soon as Vidal started screaming—that would have been ordinary. They would have wanted to stop any fights, would have taken someone out to solitary if necessary… And yet, as Neymar looks up and surveys the room, he realizes that they’re alone. The rest of the showers are empty now, and Neymar doesn’t remember seeing them leave.

That, at least, makes sense.

Nobody wants to be found with a dead body.

As if hearing Neymar’s thoughts, Masche grabs his wrist and yanks him through the showers to the outer room. A different bar of soap is clutched in Masche’ hand, and Neymar’s not sure why, but he suddenly thinks that it’s where Masche had hidden the blade. For all he knows, maybe there’s another knife shoved in there too. Maybe there are many. Maybe Masche’s got weapons stashed all over. “Now, we get the fuck out of here,” Masche mutters gruffly, nearly flinging Neymar toward where they left their stuff.

Neymar skids to a stop, expecting Di María to be waiting next to their clothes but instead finding himself face to face with Medel sitting on the bench. Neymar has a moment of outright panic, looking toward Masche in desperation as he fervently tries to find a way to defend himself. “I didn’t, he didn’t,” he stutters, nearly giving himself whiplash as he jerks back from the angry Chilean.

But Medel doesn’t stand.

Medel doesn’t speak.

Medel doesn’t even blink.

He looks wrong. Strange. Abnormally still. And Neymar’s panic slowly disappears as he realizes that Medel…

Well, Medel is fucking dead too.

His eyes are open wide, slightly bulging, and his hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides, and that’s what had given Neymar pause. Medel had always been threatening around Neymar before. But now? Now… he’s definitely motionless, propped up on the bench only by the wall behind him.

Definitely not breathing.

Definitely dead.

As Neymar looks at him closer, he realizes Medel’s skin doesn’t look like it should. It’s not right at all. It’s paler than normal, but it has a tinge of blue to it—his lips especially. There’s sort of a red line across his throat, too, a strange line that looks like odd bruising. Like something was wrapped around his neck hard enough to cut off the flow of oxygen.

Strangled then.

Was Di María responsible? He was the one who was supposed to be watching their clothing after all. But when Neymar had entered, Di María had been talking to Rojo. And Lavezzi and Agüero had been there too. Neymar would bet that one of them was involved. If not all of them. And then again comes the question of why none of the guards had shown up. Somebody must have distracted them? Or bribed…

“Fucking move it!” Masche interrupts, already dressed. He shoves Neymar to the side, ignoring Medel’s body, and begins forcefully putting Neymar’s arms into his sleeves. “Jesus fucking Christ. You wanna be like him? Because you’re gonna be if you’re found here. Let’s go!”

Neymar thinks he’s going numb again, because he should have more of a reaction to three dead men.

And yet…

He doesn’t.

His shirt is sticking to his damp skin as Masche drags him out into the hallway. Like the showers, it’s empty, the usual groups or crowds nowhere to be seen. And it’s quieter than normal like everyone’s on edge, waiting for something. For trouble. Like the calm before the storm. Neymar swallows, walking quickly behind Masche, and then nearly jogging as Masche picks up the pace. Nearly every cell they pass is full of people, stoic faces and dark eyes staring back at them like they *know*.

They must know.

What Neymar did.

That he’s a murderer now.

For real.

Like them.

When they reach Messi’s cell, Neymar’s out of breath. He stands there in the doorway, blinking, clutching his towel to his stomach as Masche enters. A few drops of water drip down the back of his neck from his still wet hair and Neymar wipes them away as they itch. The lights are off like they usually are when any Neymar and Luis are napping in the late afternoon. And at this hour, without any daylight coming in from the window, Neymar has to wait a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “What—what should we do?”

“I’d guess we have two minutes,” Masche says, and Neymar squints at him until he realizes Masche is talking to Messi over on the bed. “Maybe a little less. Maybe a little more.” He shrugs, setting his bar of soap beside an identical one on the shelf. After a second he arranges it slightly to the left, putting it in some exact position that seems to only make sense to him. “No problems, Leo.”

Neymar swings his head over to the bunk.

Messi’s shirtless, slightly reclined against pillows, hands behind his head like he’s resting. His knees are bent, feet flat on the bed, blanket draped over top. It’s an odd time of day for him to be taking a nap, and Neymar’s slightly confused that he’s not sitting at the desk like normal.

“It’s done?” Messi confirms quietly. “All three?” At Masche’s nod, he stretches, rolling his neck and cracking it. “Good.”

And then the blanket moves and Luis raises his head from between Messi’s legs. His chest is heaving and he takes a few deep breaths. Then he runs his hand through his dark hair, spiking it up slightly before he rests his cheek on Messi’s belly. “What’s done?” he asks, wiping his mouth as the blanket slides down his spine, catching on the bandages around his chest.

Neymar thinks he would blush if he weren’t still so numb. Because he knows what Luis and Messi sometimes get up to when he’s not there. He’d have to truly be an idiot to not notice that. Then again, he’s never actually witnessed any of it. Only made assumptions since he’s usually told to take a hike when Messi get twitchy. And Neymar’s certainly never walked in on them mid-blowjob. But with the way Luis is looking pretty comfortable between Messi’s thighs, and since Luis’ lips are glistening slightly, Neymar’s pretty clear about what he’s interrupted.

Suddenly there’s an alarm that starts blaring in the hallway, and it gets so loud that Neymar can hardly think.

But he knows that it isn’t good.

It’s that alarm he’d heard that first day. When Messi had killed Higuaín. And he knows it means they found the bodies. He just doesn’t know what it means for them.

The door beeps and then begins to shut behind him, almost not giving him enough time to get out of the way. It closes loudly, and there’s another beep as it locks. Neymar spins around to stare at it as if that’ll make it open. He grabs at a bar and pulls on it but nothing happens. Stupidly, he yanks harder, as if he might be able to rip it out of the wall. “We’re trapped?”

Masche, from the middle of the cell, says, “One minute.” He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it in the corner.

“One minute?” Neymar repeats slowly, still not really getting it. Of course, he’d already been locked in a cell when the sirens went off before. He looks at the door. “We can’t leave?”

“Lockdown,” Luis confirms from the bed, moving to the side and getting out of the way as Messi starts to get up. The blanket moves too, staying mostly around Luis’ waist and leaving no doubt that he’s naked underneath. As for Messi, Neymar only catches a glimpse of a hipbone and the curve of his ass before Messi’s jeans are pulled back in place. They must have only been undone enough for Luis to have access.

“Get your clothes off,” Messi orders Neymar, standing up and moving over to do it himself before Neymar even has time to process the strange order. The towel is plucked from his hands and thrown in the corner and Messi starts to yank his shirt off. His touch is rougher than it’s ever been with Neymar and it’s clear he’s in a hurry. “Now, Neymar.”

But it seems so wrong, so different from the way Messi’s touched him in the past.

“Wait,” Neymar says, trying to pull away. “What? Why?” He starts to shiver as his skin hits the chilly air, gooseflesh breaking out across his arms. “I don’t—,” he says, gasping as Messi’s hands go to his fly. But Messi doesn’t stop, popping the button and pulling down the zipper like Neymar’s not said a word.

And then Neymar’s jeans are around his ankles.

Follow by his underwear.

His hands go to his dick instinctively, cupping as best he can and hiding himself from the room.

But nobody’s really paying attention. Masche boosts himself up onto the top bunk, muttering something about how they’re out of time. The mattress bounces and creaks before Masche settles back with his own blanket. And then Messi’s kicking Neymar’s clothes across the floor and under the desk. “Hurry! Get into bed,” Messi says urgently.

Neymar’s shivering for a different reason now. Tears come to his eyes as Messi tugs him over to the bed and pushes him down. “What are you doing?!” he shouts, half falling onto Luis and dislodging the blanket. There’s a hiss as Neymar’s elbow collides with Luis’ side, but Neymar can’t even think about apologizing. Masche’s saying something about shutting him up in the background, but Neymar isn’t listening anymore. “Stop!”

But Messi doesn’t stop, climbing onto the bed behind him like Neymar hasn’t said one word of protest.

Luis is pulling on him now, too, saying something over and over that Neymar doesn’t understand, maneuvering him so that Neymar’s chest is facing Luis’. Before he knows it, Neymar’s sandwiched entirely between them, Luis wrapping his arms around his waist and facing him grimly.

They’re both naked, Neymar pretty much between Luis' thighs, but neither of them is aroused and it’s so similar to what just happened to him in the showers that Neymar can’t breathe.

Panic is starting to bubble up throughout him and his shaking is increasing. He’s staring at Luis in astonishment, trying to understand why Luis would have lied to him, why Luis is going to hurt him—why Luis isn’t really his friend. Because that was the one thing he so wanted to be true. “You promised me,” Neymar whispers, feeling tears come to his eyes. “You promised me he would never do this. You said! You said he didn't need to do this,” Neymar insists.

Luis’ hold on him loosens but he doesn’t let go, especially since Neymar can’t find the strength to struggle. His fingers settle onto the grooves at Neymar’s hips. “I know, Ney, I know. Trust me,” he says. He looks solemn, like he’s not lying, like he’s telling the truth. And he's never lied to Neymar before. “Trust us. You gotta just trust us,” he says, sounding earnest, sounding urgent, sounding like he cares.

But Neymar can’t listen.

He can’t believe him.

How can he?

Messi’s pressed up against Neymar’s back now, denim scratching the back of Neymar’s ass, the button of his jeans cold at the bottom of his spine. The blanket is draped over all three of them, not really providing any warmth or comfort. Messi’s still shirtless, and for a second Neymar thinks that maybe nothing else will happen. But then… Messi reaches down and undoes his fly, the sound of the zipper something unmistakable despite the blaring of the siren.

“No,” Neymar whispers. “No, please, no,” he says, vision blurring as he stares down at Luis’ face. “Not this way. Luis, please!”

“Leo,” Luis says, and Neymar hears but doesn’t hear. “Leo, he’s crying.”

Neymar hadn’t even realized that the tears had come again.

Luis' thumb strokes across Neymar’s cheeks, trying to wipe them away, but there are too many. They keep coming, leaving hot trails down to his chin where they drip down onto Luis’ chest. “It’s alright, Ney. I promise it’ll just be a minute. Just stay with me, okay?” Luis whispers fervently. "Just a minute."

Messi’s hand touches Neymar's hair gently, curling around a strand. He takes a second to finger his jaw too, like he’s thinking, but then slides his hand down and grips Neymar’s shoulder instead. “More believable,” he mutters. "Better some than none." He pushes down on Neymar to press him more into Luis, reaching behind the pillow for a tube of something. He gets his hand slick, painting a stripe across Luis’ cheek for some reason and then rubs his palm down Neymar’s side. The grease clings to Neymar’s hipbone and streaks over his outer thigh before Messi lifts his hand.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“You promised me,” Neymar mumbles, hiding his head in Luis’ chest now, trying to find some sort of comfort. The bandages across Luis' ribs rub against his nose. It should irritate him but all it does is make him nuzzle harder. “You promised me,” he repeats over and over, hands clenching into the sheets on either side of Luis as he tries to brace himself. He thinks he might hyperventilate, and he keeps trying to breathe.

But there’s that fear of the unknown, the feel of Messi’s chest against his back. It’s warm, smooth, so unlike the roughness of the denim against the back of his thighs. It almost distracts him from what’s happening. But it doesn’t. Because any moment now it'll happen. Messi will thrust forward. It'll hurt, he knows that, knows he hasn't been prepared, knows that Messi is larger than average. And it's been so long since Neymar's had sex--he can't even remember what it was like.

He can't breathe.

Can't.

Breathe.

The siren cuts off abruptly, and the silence is deafening. Neymar keeps waiting for Messi to say something, to explain, to warn him...

And then abruptly Messi’s hand digs into his shoulder, nails digging into where Vidal had grabbed him.

Neymar screams in pain, trying to pull away from Messi’s hand and shove himself against Luis to get free.

There’s laughter in reaction, and Neymar is so stunned, so hurt, so scared, that it takes a minute for him to realize that it’s *not* coming from Messi or Luis. It’s coming from the doorway. He turns his head, vision still blurry from his tears, and as he takes a shaking breath, he realizes that Enrique is standing there, just inside the cell. The locked door is now open, and the guard is smirking as he stares at them.

“Looks like you’re quite busy,” Enrique says, hand going to his nightstick. He pulls it out of his belt and smacks it into his hand, laughing as Neymar flinches against Luis’ chest. Behind him are a few other guards. Zidane is there, looking bored, and he follows Enrique inside the cell but the others stay in the hallway. "I almost feel like I should put a stop to this. But I won’t. Why should I? Why should I help you now?”

Neymar closes his eyes.

“We tried to tell you, didn’t we, Neymar?” Enrique asks. “We offered to move you somewhere safer—where Messi wouldn’t be able to get you, didn’t we? Set you up? Keep you away from the riffraff. And now,” Enrique says, pausing to spit on the floor, “don’t you wish you’d given in?” He laughs cruelly, and Neymar keeps his eyes closed. But Enrique’s voice soon sounds nearer to the bed, and Neymar has to bite his lip in order not to scream.

“I hope you remember what could have been,” Enrique hisses, even as Messi’s palm slides down Neymar’s hip again.

A caress?

A warning?

A threat?

Neymar doesn’t know.

It doesn’t stop Enrique from talking. “Every time he’s fucking you, I hope you remember that you missed out. You chose *wrong*. And now you’re just another whore who’s going to get passed around time and time again. Traded out for favors. Kept on your back, on your knees, pushed facedown over the desk more times than you’ll ever be able to keep track of.”

Neymar swallows.

“Messi will give you out to anyone he feels like, and you won’t be able to say a word, will you? You have no friends here, and Alves sure as hell isn’t gonna stick up for you anymore.” Enrique laughs. “And if you think that we’ll do a single thing to help you now, to stop any of it, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

Messi doesn’t say anything, just keeps breathing hotly against Neymar’s neck. The hand on Neymar’s hip stays where it is too, fingers moving against the slick rubbed into his skin. And though Neymar’s still scared, it’s strangely starting to be more comforting than anything else.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” Enrique growls, apparently not finished. “I hope it’s a painful one. Very. Painful.” His shoes scratch on the gritty floor and he laughs again like Neymar’s predicament is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Neymar can feel Luis tighten his grip on Neymar’s waist cautiously. He’s not sure why. Maybe he thinks that Neymar has the strength to fight back.

He doesn’t.

“Lucho,” Zidane interrupts. “We should move on,” he says quickly, voice cutting through the cell. And perhaps cutting off Enrique before he can rile up Messi any more than he’s already done. Truthfully, Messi’s probably glaring daggers at Enrique, obviously having no love for the guard nor anyone who isn’t on his side.

“Clearly, they were here,” Zidane says dryly. “Which means that they weren’t involved. We need to move on. The Chileans had a lot of enemies and I know you can think of a couple others to look in on. We have a lot more cells, and prisoners, to check before we report back. We’re wasting time.”

Enrique huffs, but he listens, standing up straight and walking back to the doorway. He bangs his nightstick against the bars in warning. “We’ll be watching,” he threatens ominously before the nightstick gets tucked back into his belt and he pulls the door closed behind him. The cell beeps once more, indicating that the door is locked again.

Neymar opens his eyes to peek through his lashes, suddenly aware that Luis’ hand is moving up and down his arm in a comforting manner. Neymar sniffs. His sight is still blurred, so he reaches up and clumsily wipes his eyes. It occurs to him that he’s still in danger—that Enrique is right and Messi’s going to fuck him right here and now no matter what Neymar wants.

Except…

Messi exhales slowly. “Move over,” he says. There’s the sound of his zipper being pulled up. And then his hand lightly rests on Neymar’s back and pushes as if he’s waiting for him to do something.

Neymar turns his head to look up at Luis, still frightened, but Luis is smiling reassuringly.

“Let go of me a little, okay?” Luis says to Neymar, and when Neymar haltingly obeys, having not even really realized that he was clinging to him, Luis starts to slide over toward the wall as far as he can go. And when he’s settled, he pulls on Neymar’s arm. Neymar lets him, confused again, moving slowly until he realizes that Luis is trying to turn Neymar so that Messi can lie down too.

In the end, all three of them are squeezed onto the bunk. They don’t really fit, with Luis half turning to lean against the wall, and Messi probably closer to the edge than he’d like. But Neymar is in the middle, shoulder to shoulder with Luis on his right and Messi on his left.

Nobody says anything for a minute, and the mattress above their heads squeaks reminding them all that Mascherano is still there.

“Did you really think…?” Luis says, putting an arm around Neymar a little awkwardly due to their positions. His hand brushes against Messi too, but Messi doesn’t react. “Did you think we would hurt you? That we would take advantage of you like that?” There’s a little whine in his voice as if he’s dismayed.

Neymar doesn’t shake him off, despite still being on edge. But he doesn’t lean into the embrace either.

“Ney?” Luis asks, when Neymar doesn’t answer right away.

“What was I supposed to think?” Neymar hisses out, wiping his face as best he can. He can’t quite stop his shaking and he knows both Luis and Messi must be able to feel it. “What am I ever supposed to think except that you’re all fucking dangerous people and I don’t know anything about you!”

He can feel Messi’s eyes on him, but Neymar can’t stop now. It’s all coming out, having been bottled up for far too long.

“You’re murderers! How the hell am I supposed to trust you? You think because you’re nice to my face that it means anything? That anything has changed? That you won’t turn on me as soon as it benefits you?” Neymar grits his teeth, willing his voice to remain level. He pulls the sheet up as high as he can to cover himself and tries to stop trembling. “Why couldn’t you just *say* it was for show?!”

He wonders if he’s in shock now.

Actually then he wonders if he’s been in shock this whole time.

“Oh, Ney,” Luis says, sounding sad. “I’m sorry—,” he starts, abruptly falling silent as Messi swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Murderers, are we?” Messi asks softly, his back facing Neymar while his bare feet touch onto the ground. His waistband is loose, and his jeans—now done up—sag down slightly. “Yes, I suppose we are.” He stares out into the cell away from Neymar. “Those men were dead the second they put that mark on your face,” he says calmly. “That’s the way it is here. You might have delayed their deaths with your silence, but you couldn’t change their fates.”

Neymar takes a deep breath, absentmindedly watching the muscles in Messi’s back move. Then he takes another because he’s still furious and now is not the time to get distracted.

Messi’s calmness is always so unnerving.

Messi turns his head then, staring at the bars on the door, his face in profile. “Did you want to?” he asks quietly, curiously. “Did you want me to show mercy? To let them live? So they could go on terrorizing you? Threatening you? Just biding their time?” His tone is soft, but his voice carries throughout the cell.

Neymar’s words catch in his throat. Luis’ arm is still around him and finally, without any other choice, Neymar relaxes into it. It feels good, but he’s angry about it. Angry and hurt and so so confused that he could scream. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “No.” He tried to remember how he felt that day in the hallway when the Chileans had wanted to kill Luis.

The fear—that terrible fear...

But all he can think of now are their dead bodies. He hadn’t wanted Vidal to die. Hadn’t wanted Jara to die. Not like that, not with him involved. Medel was dead because of him too. Maybe not by his hands, but definitely because of him. Because of that day in the hallway. “But I didn’t want...” He trails off helplessly, yet again unable to put his thoughts into words.

How many more will die because of him?

That’s what he wants to ask.

Messi turns his face toward the middle of the room again. “Whatever you thought we were going to do to you pales in comparison to what they would have done to you. And the fact that you even have to think about it,” he says, shaking his head slightly like he’s incredulous. “Your innocence will be your downfall.”

“No, it won’t,” Neymar bites out.

Messi actually twists around to look at him. “What?” His hand goes to the bunk to hold himself in place. “What?” he repeats when Neymar doesn’t speak immediately.

“I’m not innocent,” Neymar says, somehow not shrinking back. “I killed Jara,” he says, waiting for Messi’s expression of shock. And when it doesn’t come, he goes on. “I killed him when he touched me—in the showers.” He swallows and tries not to remember anything else about that moment. “So I’m not innocent. I’m a murderer, like you now.”

“Oh, Ney,” Luis says again, like he doesn’t know what else to say.

Neymar thought he would be more surprised. He thought they would both be more surprised.

“Like me, are you?” Messi asks, face shadowed. “How’d you do it then? Strangle him? Suffocate him? Bash his head in?” He laughs slightly but he doesn’t smile. “You’re not a great fighter though, are you? Would have been hard to do on your own. But you were in the showers, so maybe you drowned him? Held him under the water until he stopped breathing. Or a combination of those, I would expect. That’s what would have been easiest. For you.”

Neymar licks his lips. “I, well, no,” he says slowly, shaking his head at the mere thought. “I—I pushed him away. And,” he says, finding it hard to even say it, “he slipped.” He can hear the rushing of the water in his head and he takes a deep breath to clear it. “And he fell. Hard.”

Messi waits for more. “And then? Did Masche give you a knife?” he guesses. “And you killed him then?” he asks expectantly.

Neymar shakes his head. “No!” he says, somewhat stronger than he means to, trying to get Messi to just understand. “He *slipped*, because I pushed him away. The tile… It was wet and he fell. And he hit his head, or, he fell wrong. And I killed him! See? Now I’m a murderer too.”

“Jesus,” Masche interjects from the bunk above, sounding bored. “This is going to go on forever. What are you, high? Or maybe just the worst storyteller ever born. Nobody fucking killed Jara. He fell and broke his neck. I took care of Vidal and Di María did Medel.” He says the names disgustedly. “Frankly,” he adds gruffly, “Neymar was more in my way than anything else…”

Neymar can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I killed him!” he insists, nearly shrugging off Luis’ hand. “It was my fault. He’s dead because I pushed him. I killed him. It was me. I killed him,” he repeats, quieter now when Luis refuses to let go.

Messi moves his head from side to side like he’s weighing Neymar’s words. It’s nearly hypnotic. “No,” he says, the dim light catching his eyes for an instant before they fall into shadow again.

“No?” Neymar repeats, not getting it.

Messi leans closer to Neymar and Luis, one knee on the mattress, his free hand over them to brace himself on the bottom of the top bunk. “You can think whatever you like,” Messi murmurs, warm breath brushing against Neymar’s face. “But you didn’t kill him. You’re not a murderer. You’re not like me. And you never will be.”

Neymar feels tears come to his eyes again.

“I killed him! I did—,” Neymar blurts out, falling silent when Messi’s other hand lightly touches his lips to quiet him.

“Be quiet. Listen closely to me,” Messi says, voice hardening. “That’s the end of it. I don’t want to hear any more. Never say that again.” He searches Neymar’s eyes, lips pressed together tightly like he’s angry.

Neymar can’t speak.

“You’ve said your piece here, in the privacy of our cell. I know what really happened. You didn’t kill him. He fell and it was an accident. Enough,” he says warningly when Neymar’s nostrils flare. “And now, you’ll forget what you saw. You didn’t like them, but you weren’t there,” Messi says slowly. “You weren’t in the showers, you didn’t see Jara, or Vidal, or even Medel. You hear me?”

“But—,” Neymar eventually chokes out, the pad of Messi’s fingers touching the inside of his mouth, “that’s not what happened!”

Luis is hugging him closer now, trying to calm him down, whispering something over and over, but Neymar doesn’t want to have any of it.

“I’m not innocent,” Neymar insists. He pushes Messi’s hand away with a strength he didn’t know that he had. But Messi doesn’t fight him either. Messi moves his hand away and lets it fall to his side. “You can’t make this just go away… just because, because you want it to!” Neymar wipes his eyes again angrily, looking hard at Messi afterward and almost daring him to speak.

Neymar’s not sure why he can’t calm down, he’s not sure why he’s even trying to challenge Messi. But he wants to, he wants to stand up for himself for once in his fucking life. He’s so fucking tired, so fucking exhausted, so fucking mad that he’s always feeling this way. And Messi is still looking so calm, so serene, like Neymar’s thoughts and feelings and words *don’t even matter*.

Neymar can’t take it.

“Is this how *you* excuse all of your own shit?” Neymar blindly accuses. “You just pretend you weren’t there? That you didn’t have anything to do with it?” And when Messi still doesn’t react, Neymar nearly throws a fit. “I’m *glad* then, that I’m not like you,” he hisses.

Messi opens his mouth at that, and he leans away from Neymar, a strange expression flitting across his face as it moves into the light. If Neymar had to guess… he’d say that Messi looks hurt.

But that’s impossible.

And yet?

At that moment, the door beeps and slides open. The lockdown is over and the hallway begins to fill with people. It’s no longer quiet as the chatter begins to build, jokes and laughter and shouting continuing on even though they’ve just lost a few members of their population. Messi doesn’t say one word. But he slowly walks over to the desk, dons his shirt and shoes, and exits the cell without looking back.

Masche whistles from where he’s still on the top bunk. “Stupid.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ney,” Luis says then, reproachfully. He withdraws his arm from Neymar and nudges him over on the mattress so they both aren’t so cramped.

Neymar is immediately cold and pulls the sheet higher. It occurs to him that they’re both still naked, but at the moment, it’s the least of his worries. “What do you know about being fair?” he asks, still angry. “You’re a murderer too,” he adds, a dull pain forming behind his eyes. Rage and regret morphing into a growing headache.

“I know a lot more than you,” Luis says quietly. “And I think it’s time you learned a little more about Lionel Messi.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think??
> 
>  
> 
> [Again, art by the amazing fulldazeobjec](https://fulldazeobjec.tumblr.com/)


	22. Things Aren't Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis trails off after that, solemnly staring at Neymar.
> 
> Neymar’s first reaction is that there’s more Luis isn’t saying, more he must be keeping to himself. He’s got a special bond with Messi, a sort of familiarity that Neymar still doesn’t understand and might never will. Luis revealing this much about Messi’s past is proof of that.
> 
> But *how* does Luis know it at all??
> 
> Messi doesn’t seem the type to whisper secrets in the dark, aimlessly talking about his childhood trauma in the early hours of the morning while stroking his fingers through Luis’ dark hair.
> 
> And yet…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, we all mostly survived el clásico! Here's your chapter as a reward. The flashback that takes place during the first half of the chapter is by my friend and fellow author [stillgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgold/pseuds/stillgold). Hope you all enjoy it :)

*********

_**An excerpt from a diary entry** _

_I feel like it’s all a waste, like everything I’m working so hard for vanishes in a day, in a minute, in a moment. I wish I could get through to Leo Messi, but, more and more, he is slipping further and further away from me._

_I can’t help but notice that it gets worse every time his father returns home. I’m trying not to push him—I want him to come to me on his own—but it’s the same story every time: a breakthrough when Jorge is away and then, somehow, it’s all erased on his return. As if Leo regresses—and it’s not small steps either, but giant leaps backward._

_I feel helpless, hopeless. That shy little boy with that ridiculous bowl haircut, the one who played football like he was born with a ball, now sits on the edge of the football field and smokes incessantly, his eyes sullen and shadowed._

_How do I help someone who can’t escape?_

_I fear it might be too late._

_\--Lionel Messi’s Guidance Counselor_

~~

Lionel Messi was only five years old the first time his father turned his anger on him. It was a small incident then, of course, not like the red-hot rage that burned everything it came in contact with. That rage came later, became commonplace as Leo got older. No, this one could have even been laughed off as an accident.

It had all started so well. Leo had gotten a football for his fifth birthday because, even then, he was a little prodigy with his feet. Even then, he was obsessed with football. His mother had scraped together every penny and bought it brand spanking new. That, in itself, was miraculous. Nothing ever came to the house firsthand unless it was food--the family just couldn’t afford it.

Leo loved it as soon as he laid eyes on it. It was blue and yellow, his favorite colors. He promptly called it Bally and spent a whole week kicking it everywhere, even allowing his two older brothers to play with the precious toy. At the end of every night, he brought it indoors, washed it carefully, and then took it safely to bed, where he could keep it warm every night.

Later, when Leo was older, he would have known better, would have known not to get attached, would have known not to give Bally a name. But he didn’t know and, when Jorge Messi stamped Bally flat in a fit of sadistic, impotent rage, breaking it with a ridiculous pfft! sound that didn’t quite capture the gravity of the situation, Leo didn’t cry.

He waited, unflinching, while his father’s rage burned itself out, and when Jorge finally left the room, little Leo collected the broken, deflated ball. He took it with him and kept it on his bedside table. There it remained.

A reminder.

~~  
Leo was 9 years old when he finally realized that his family was different. That other families didn’t cower in fear when their father came home, that other families didn’t scrimp and save for a little bit of bread and milk.

How could he have known? His best friend, Kun Agüero, was just as poor, just as destitute. A boy with 6 siblings, the seventh on the way, Kun knew how painful hunger pangs could be. They spent their days prowling the market, asking for the almost-spoiled food that didn’t get sold at the end of the day--and, sometimes, sometimes they stole.

It was desperation. Little Maria Sol cried constantly and his mother just didn’t have enough milk for her so Leo stole a little. He didn’t get caught and it seemed so easy. Someone had to provide for the family. So he stole, getting bolder and craftier every single time, until finally, he was lifting wallets as casually as any other accomplished thief.

A few times, he almost got caught. There was one hair-raising incident where the man he’d swiped the money from shouted and reached for him. Leo came home and felt the man’s fingers brushing his threadbare jacket the whole sleepless night.

But the next morning, he woke up and stole again. Maria Sol needed socks. And so it went on, Kun by his side, and it just seemed a little easier every time. If maybe the light in his eyes dimmed, if something seemed to go out of him, something indescribable and warm, what did it matter?

You had to do what you had to do.

~~

By the time Leo was 13 years old, he had already been smoking for a year--the lit cigarette in his relaxed fingers a jarring contrast to his still-round little face. He was a junior member in a gang full of sixteen and seventeen-year-olds, an unimportant person, too skinny and small to mean anything. But he was resourceful and he was smart and, moreover, he looked too innocent--it was his best alibi. He was determined to become the gang leader, but never voiced it publicly--he was way too smart for that.

Except to Kun, who would become his first follower--and his most loyal. Kun worshipped Leo--but in a way that wasn’t worship, in a way that was undeserving, unabashed love and so it was okay. It wasn’t embarrassing that way, it was just the way it was. They loved each other, but Kun loved him more.

Meanwhile, Leo waited and watched, was outwardly calm and respectful to the gang leader, Hugo, but the smiles he directed Hugo’s way never quite touched his eyes, never quite warmed the flinty blackness of his gaze. When the gang planned their biggest heist to date, stealing smuggled cocaine from a rival gang, Leo knew it was his moment to pounce. But he lacked something--he knew it himself, could sense the doubt fluttering inside his skinny ribs.

He almost chickened out, almost decided he’d never go through with it. But it was Jorge Messi who convinced him, Jorge Messi that forever would guide the path of his destiny, an unseen writer behind all his decisions, a muse Leo Messi didn’t want and loathed.

But that night, his mind was made up for him. It was coming home to a mother sporting a brand new black eye, it was coming home to brothers who were so broken that they couldn’t make eye contact with outsiders, it was coming home to a house where they could afford alcohol for Jorge but not electricity. That was the beginning of the story of Leo Messi, the biggest crime boss in Rosarian history.

That night, the night his gang had decided to pull off the heist, just as Leo Messi had been planning to leave, his mind full of images of his mother’s black eye, he heard the thuds coming from his parents’ bedroom and rose from his bed with deadly calm. He moved towards their room in that eerie headspace he would recognize forever after, that peace that came right before the hit, an ice-cold feeling in his veins.

When people asked why he was the biggest and greatest crime boss in local history, he would say nothing but he knew it was that. That preternatural calm, that fearlessness, the feeling of absolute fluidity in his head and joints.

He would never remember what happened next with his father, only really coming to when his mother shook him, wailing, her voice full of horror, her eyes over-large, “Leo, Leo, what have you done?”

But Leo simply shrugged her off, his eyes avoiding the large prone shape in the corner, unwilling to look at Jorge now that normal sensation had returned, even as the blood pooled around his feet.

Someone else’s blood.

It was the perfect time to say something, to show he was as ice-cold as they came, but he felt the lump rising in his throat, the burning behind his eyes and he moved to the front door, teeth chattering.

But, crucially, that doubt fluttering around his ribs had gone.

Ignoring his mother’s crying—he would deal with that later—for now, he had a job to do—he left the house, again feeling that icy feeling seep through him.

At dawn, when he finally returned to the house as the new gang leader, his hands bruised, scratched, blood spattered on his clothes, cradling a hand that was sporting several broken bones, his eyes grim, and the heavy weight of a new gun in his jacket, he was no longer afraid. He bent and took off his shoes and, holding them in his hand, the soles red from his father’s blood, he went up to his parents’ bedroom.

The body had already been removed and his mother was already in bed, asleep. He looked at her face and thought that, for the first time, she was at peace. He kissed her goodnight and went to sleep that night, falling asleep immediately and sleeping a dreamless, heavy sleep.

~~

When Leo turned 18, it was a milestone in many ways. He had sex for the first time, his shy pretty neighbor Rosita succumbing to his bad boy charm, her father’s fruitless warnings falling on deaf ears. Perhaps, even, those warnings had spurred her on. She was curvy and soft and warm and Leo loved her, as much as he could love anyone at that point.

But Rosita didn’t know how deep the gang stuff was, how dangerous Leo really was. When she accidentally heard him talking on the phone about arranging a hit on a rival gang, she was terrified. Leo saw it in her eyes, and that was it for them. He never spoke or met her again. Later, when she married a boring engineer in the rich part of town, the happy couple received cases of the best imported single-malt whiskey at their wedding as a gift from an anonymous person. Rosita never said a word to her very nice, though boring husband, but she didn’t drink a single drop of that whiskey, the whiskey that just so happened to be Leo’s favorite kind.

But 18 was more than just heartbreak. Leo also pulled off the biggest coup for any crime boss in the city after managing to consolidate the two biggest gangs. It afforded him the kind of power that no other gang leader had ever enjoyed and he was able to stop doing any personal hits--in fact, he rarely killed anyone after he turned an adult. Unless he wanted the singular pleasure, of course. He had too many people to do that for him.

But his biggest success by far was the fear in people’s eyes when his name was mentioned. Messi? they whispered, as if too scared to say his name out loud. His name alone got him favors. His name alone was power.

Nobody scared him, nobody. That was what power gave to you.

 

*****

Luis trails off after that, solemnly staring at Neymar.

Neymar’s first reaction is that there’s more Luis isn’t saying, more he must be keeping to himself. He’s got a special bond with Messi, a sort of familiarity that Neymar still doesn’t understand and might never will. Luis revealing this much about Messi’s past is proof of that.

But *how* does Luis know it at all??

Messi doesn’t seem the type to whisper secrets in the dark, aimlessly talking about his childhood trauma in the early hours of the morning while stroking his fingers through Luis’ dark hair.

And yet…

Masche is still above them, the mattress as silent as he is. The springs haven’t creaked once since Luis started talking. He must be listening to them, perhaps awaiting Neymar’s response to the story. Not that he’s ever been much of a talker anyway, so it’s not like he’s going to interrupt their conversation. Like Luis, he has to know some of it, after all, he’s one of Messi’s followers too. He’s killed for Messi, almost without question, obeying Messi without a word of protest. Bloodied his hands for Messi like it was his pleasure to keep Messi’s clean.

Him, Agüero, Di María. The Chileans are the only ones that Neymar knows about, but he’s sure there are more victims. And it’s entirely likely that Lavezzi and Rojo are just as guilty. It wouldn’t surprise Neymar to find out that all the Argentines have killed for Messi.

Or will.

Neymar takes a deep breath, shifting his head on the pillow. It’s not really that comfortable—a little lumpy in places and flatter than it should be in others. It’s a typical prison pillow, quite similar to Neymar’s pillow back in his cell and covered with a threadbare pillowcase that has seen better days. It once was white and now is a dingy gray, just like all the sheets and towels that Neymar’s seen since he got here.

But this is *Messi’s pillow*.

The same pillow that Messi uses every night. The same pillow that Messi’s used every night for years and years.

For all that Neymar’s in Messi’s bed, hearing his secrets, Neymar really doesn’t feel all that close to him.

He’d expected something dark. It’s Messi they’re talking about after all. So, of course, he expected something full of danger and threats and yes, even murder. Luis hadn’t really explained *why* Messi was in prison, and Neymar’s not sure he’ll ever find out the whole story behind that. But he’d gotten more than he expected. And of course, he has questions. So many questions about the how’s and the why’s… About the girl, about Messi’s mother and father, about his sister and brothers, about Ronaldo and Messi, and the timing of everything.

Neymar doesn’t think there will ever be a time where he doesn’t have questions.

He keeps coming back to how Luis even knows all of this, and why he would betray Messi’s trust to tell Neymar now.

Because Neymar’s quite certain Messi would see it as a betrayal.

It occurs to him that Luis is still waiting and he should probably say something. He clears his throat. “Oh, so Agüero knew Messi on the outside too?” he finally asks dumbly.

It’s so fucking stupid, and he is cringing as it comes out, but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Luis thinks so too obviously. He continues staring at Neymar. “Are—,” he starts, blinking like he’s not sure what he’s just heard. He shakes his head again. “Are you serious?” He presses his lips together and his nostrils flare like he’s taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I just told you about why Leo is the way he is, what drives him, why he’s done what he’s done… And that’s what you have to say? That’s your reaction.” He collapses back on to his own pillow and rubs his eyes. “Yeah, he knew Agüero on the outside too. Jesus, Ney. Come on. Really?”

Neymar winces.

“That’s not,” he begins, letting out a rush air himself as he tries to gather his thoughts. The pillowcase is scratchy against the back of his neck now and he tilts his head to the side as he tries to find a softer place. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to think here? I didn’t know anything about him, except for what I heard when I first got here…”

Taxes—that had been what somebody had told him. That’s how they finally got Messi, they’d said. He closes his eyes at the thought of Dani and Rafa and Marcelo, ignoring the ache of pain that runs through his chest. It still hurts, though at least it doesn’t drive him to tears. The pain is still there. It’ll lessen with time. He knows it will. He’s *sure* it will.

He just has to keep trying to ignore it.

Neymar keeps his eyes closed and tries not to fuck this all up. The last thing he wants to do is make Luis regret telling him things. “I’m just trying to process it,” he explains. “Understand him,” he clarifies, nodding to himself. “And now you’re telling me all this about him having killed his father and becoming some big gang leader…” He opens his eyes again and looks over at Luis.

Luis still looks annoyed.

“That part makes sense, I guess,” Neymar says, thinking out loud, without coming straight out and saying that it’s the only part that does. The truth is, the rest is hard to comprehend. It’s hard to imagine Messi being a child. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything for a little sister, or loving to play football.

Yes, the other stuff is more believable.

Smoking.

Stealing.

Killing.

“Why are you telling me his secrets now?” Neymar asks, when Luis doesn’t say anything.

Luis sighs. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. Especially around Neymar. “Because I want you to understand, Ney,” he says quietly, placing the emphasis on ‘understand’. “People think they know a lot about Messi, about why he’s here, about what he’s done… You would have heard some of it, no? You said you knew a little? Not that they really speak about it.” He sounds protective then, slightly annoyed even. “Why should they? A man’s past is his past. It’s not their business, so they should keep their mouths shut. You don’t gossip in here, not if you want to live.”

Neymar listens quietly as Luis gains steam, crumpling the sheet in his fingers where it rests over his belly. He’s reminded again that he’s still naked, but it seems so trivial at this point to interrupt and get his underwear. Instead, he shifts on the bed, keeping the thin sheet clutched to his stomach and making sure it doesn’t slip down.

Luis shakes his head then, either because he knows exactly what Neymar’s thinking or he knows he’s getting off track. He admirably returns to the topic at hand. “But none of them outside our group really *know* him,” Luis says.

And when Neymar still doesn’t know what to say, Luis sighs again.

“‘Why?’ Ney,” Luis repeats. He presses his palms to his face, covering his eyes like he’s exhausted from the conversation. “Because I want you to see through him. I want you to know him like we know him.” His fingers scratch his forehead roughly and he drops his hands. It leaves his hair sticking up strangely, but he clearly doesn’t care. “He’s *different*.”

“But the stuff about him as a little kid,” Neymar whispers, still trying to understand, tearing his eyes away from the messy black hair that absolutely needs to be fixed. “About his father destroying his football?” He licks his lips. “How do you know about that?” he asks, and without meaning to, he suddenly feels a great wave of pity for that little boy.

Neymar’s father wasn’t exactly the kindest man, but at least he had never done something shitty like that. Neymar can’t think of a time when he was younger and his father had done something so cruel... Snatched away a toy and broken it in front of Neymar just because he was enjoying himself? It never happened once.

Then again, Neymar’s father had made him take the fall for murder... so maybe he wasn’t a shining example of fatherhood.

Luis grumbles, drawing Neymar back to the present. “I just know,” Luis says, looking away slightly and at the wall as if he’s revealed too much. “I’m not saying you should bandy everything about… Don’t spread that around if you know what’s good for you, because Leo certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. Neither would I, for that matter.” He pauses as that sinks in. “I’m just saying that people like to think they know everything. They’re fucking idiots. And you are one too, because you probably thought you had him all figured out.”

Neymar opens his mouth to protest. Because he never thought that. He’s always been so fucking confused by Messi that he’s wanted to scream.

Imagine believing that Neymar *knew* Messi!

But Luis cuts him off as he turns back to Neymar. “You did,” he insists, not letting Neymar object. “You thought you had him measured, didn’t you?” He sighs. “You called him a murderer to his face, lumped him in with everyone else here. But you know there are layers to that, don’t you? To who we are and why we’ve done what we’ve done. Forget Leo. You know from your own experience now.”

Neymar closes his mouth and forgets about everything that he was going to say. Because he’d forgotten again. Somehow he’d forgotten that he’d killed someone now too.

And Luis is right again. Neymar had known Messi was a murderer, and he had assumed Messi was just as terrible a person as everyone else. Ever since that first day with Higuaín. And it hadn’t mattered why he’d killed, just that he’d done it at all. Neymar had seen it happen right before his own eyes, that very first day with Higuaín. Messi was a criminal, belonged here without question.

But was he like everyone else?

Sure, Neymar had also seen Messi carefully clean blood off Luis’ face. That moment is burned into Neymar’s brain. It had been surprising, to say the least. Seeing someone so scary and dangerous being gentle and kind, moving a wet cloth over Luis’ skin like he was afraid of hurting him more. The only way to explain it was that Messi was being possessive but also caring. But that wasn’t because there was another side to Messi, right? That was because Luis was a good person.

Although, Luis was a murderer too.

But Neymar already knew Luis was different.

Neymar frowns as he tries to figure this all out. Luis was a bit of an anomaly, he decides after a minute. Luis had always hugged Neymar and comforted him, always told him the truth and looked out for him. He was Neymar’s friend and wasn’t like the others…

Masche, and Lavezzi and Agüero and Di María and Rojo. Now, they were killers. Yes, Neymar nods to himself, a bit pleased that he can understand that at least. Cold hearted killers, Neymar decides. Except, Lavezzi was always smiling and joking around with him. And Agüero was willing to step in and protect him. And Di María liked to play cards. And Rojo was… half his friend and half his bodyguard?

But… Dani had killed. Maybe Marcelo had too. And Rafa most certainly had. He’d said so, right to Neymar’s face. But, Neymar bites his lip, Rafa had done it to help his brother… And he’d seemed so remorseful. It was understandable, wasn’t it?

Were they all bad people?

Some of them were certainly worse than the others.

Rafa had been so kind… He wasn’t… He was more like Luis, wasn’t he? Another anomaly? Neymar shakes his head and tries to make sense of it.

“We’re not all bad people,” Luis says, maybe more to himself than to Neymar, but unknowingly echoing what Neymar was just thinking. Luis’ eyes are fixed above them on the bottom of Masche’s bunk, gaze tracing the initials scratched into the metal. A finger reaches out to trace some of them, and Neymar realizes that they’re an L and an M. “If you think that, I can’t change your mind. I know that. But,” he says, sighing, “you’re wrong.”

*****

Dinner is... strange.

It’s a strange experience because of how normal it is.

Neymar sits there, at the usual Argentine table. He eats the same tasteless food he always eats, drinks the same tepid water he always drinks, and breathes the same stale air he always breathes. It’s peas and potatoes and mystery meat swirling on his plate in a globby mess. All around him are voices and whispers and laughter, utensils clattering against the trays and tables while the inmates focus on their meals. A few are playing cards to pass the time, while others are passing cigarettes back and forth—making some sort of deal that Neymar likely doesn’t want to know about.

At their table, however, things are quiet. Messi is there, not eating, not even playing with his food. He’s just sitting there silently, arms folded and body language screaming that he doesn’t want to be bothered. He’s gazing out at the room calmly and pretending that they don’t exist. Masche sits next to him, with Agüero on his other side. Both of them focus on their food, although they’re never very chatty during dinner in any case.

Seating wise, it’s a bit out of the ordinary, since normally Neymar has to sit next to Messi.

But this time, Neymar and Luis and Rojo are last to dinner, and there are very few seats left to take. After Luis’ story, Masche had hopped down and left without a word. Not long after, Rojo had appeared at the door and (after raising an eyebrow at their nakedness, had told them it was time to eat). The three of them sit down around the table after fetching their food, and soon Neymar can almost pretend things are fine. He takes bite after bite of his potatoes while Luis does the same. Lavezzi and Rojo discuss something quietly, and Di María chimes in every once in awhile.

All of that is mostly normal.

But things aren’t normal.

Nothing will ever be normal ever again.

Luis’ leg is warm against Neymar’s under the table, knee pressed to his as if he’s warning Neymar not to do anything stupid. Maybe it’s offering comfort. Who knows.

But Neymar doesn’t do anything stupid because it’s already too late for that. He tries—*really tries*—not to look over at the Chileans’ table. He doesn’t want to see the empty spots, the spaces where he knows bodies should be. Still, he can’t help himself. His eyes travel over to where Vidal, Jara, and Medel used to sit. But they aren’t there, of course.

Their bodies are off in a morgue somewhere now, if Neymar had to guess. He wonders if the prison has a morgue, or if they have to send people somewhere else.

Neymar shakes his head.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Alexis is still at the table. Bravo, too. But other than that it’s empty. They’re quiet, abnormally so, and not even talking to each other. Or maybe it’s not so abnormal, considering the situation. They look despondent, forks barely touching their food, appetites clearly gone with the murder of their friends.

Neymar can’t blame them.

“What will happen to them?” Neymar whispers, more to himself than to anybody else. He takes a bite of mushy peas as he stares at them, the disgusting green mash turning to glue in his mouth. “The others,” he asks thickly.

Everyone knows who he means.

If there are glances exchanged around the table, Neymar doesn’t see them.

“Not sure,” Lavezzi finally says, smiling easily like he’s completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they transfer out. It’s fairly typical after an incident like this that the brass tries to shake things up.” He takes a sip of his water and looks over at the Chileans thoughtfully. “Helps avoid revenge killings. That sort of thing.” He turns back to Neymar and smiles again. “Somebody mentioned something about an English prison. They’ll probably transfer them over there.”

Rojo wipes his mouth. “Worse food and worse weather. Tough luck.” He rolls his neck a little and scratches behind his ear. “Or so I hear anyway.”

“Revenge,” Neymar mouths, trying to speak but failing. He swallows and tries again. “Revenge?” he eventually manages to squeak out. Truthfully, he hadn’t even considered that—the idea that the Alexis or Bravo would want revenge.

“Eh. Jara wasn’t particularly well-liked,” Rojo says, crumbling his napkin up and throwing it onto his tray. “You can guess why. For that matter, neither were Vidal and Medel. They weren’t here to make friends and made sure that we all knew it. Nobody’s gonna be making moves on their behalf. Not even their own people. Don’t sweat it.”

Neymar chews his lip by accident, flicking his eyes over at Bravo and Alexis again. “Well, maybe they weren’t, but,” he continues, voice strained, “I’m sure their friends might be sorta angry about the whole thing.” He studies Alexis, the frowning face looking so different from the normal cheery one. “Should I—,” he breaks off, knowing it’s dumb even before he says it.

He wants to apologize to them, wants to tell them it was an accident.

“You should shut up,” Agüero interrupts, pointing at him from across the table. “Shut up and eat your fucking food. If you say one more word about this, I’m going to beat the shit out of you. Do you hear me?” His voice is filled with such disgust and violence that Neymar physically recoils.

Luis puts a hand on Neymar’s knee like he wants to help, but even he seems reluctant to challenge Agüero.

Frankly, Neymar can’t blame him.

“You wanna do something?” Agüero asks. “Pretend the Chileans never existed. It’s bad enough we had to clean up your mess, but now you want to draw more attention to yourself? Why don’t you just stab yourself a few times and then turn yourself into the guards, huh? Because clearly, that’s what you’re aiming for, right?”

Neymar can’t speak.

“No?” Agüero hisses. “Then fucking don’t say another word.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and points at the Alexis and Bravo. “As for them? They’ll be gone soon and we’ll have one less thing to worry about. Until then, shut up, don’t talk to them *ever,* and mind your business.”

Neymar nods, fear and fury fighting within him.

The rest of the table is silent. Agüero turns back to his meal like he hasn’t just almost torn off Neymar’s head, with only the tightness of his jaw giving away that he’s still angry. Neymar tries to soldier on. He takes another bite of his peas, trying to swallow over the lump rising in his throat. After a few seconds, knowing his cheeks are a brilliant red, he raises his head.

Messi is looking in Neymar’s direction now.

But where Messi’s gaze is usually sharp and dangerous, it’s far from it now. Slowly he blinks, casually taking in Neymar—almost without recognition. His face is blank and those dark eyes pass over Neymar without really seeing him—like he’s furniture in the room and utterly unworthy of his attention.

And Neymar finds that most frightening of all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try to finish replying to comments tmm! xo


	23. One For Your Friend Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar wakes up with a plan.
> 
> The plan is simple: get back onto Messi’s good side.
> 
> That had been the plan before anyways, before the whole mess in the showers had happened... Jesus fucking Christ. Neymar takes a deep breath. Then he pulls his pillow out from under his head and tries to suffocate himself at his own idiocy. He’s calling it a mess as opposed to murder. Well, that’s fucking great, he thinks as he finally throws his pillow to the end of the bunk.
> 
> He’ll just bury everything deep down inside and then need years of therapy down the line.

Neymar wakes up with a plan.

The plan is simple: get back onto Messi’s good side.

That had been the plan before anyways, before the whole mess in the showers had happened... Jesus fucking Christ. Neymar takes a deep breath. Then he pulls his pillow out from under his head and tries to suffocate himself at his own idiocy. He’s calling it a mess as opposed to murder. Well, that’s fucking great, he thinks as he finally throws his pillow to the end of the bunk.

He’ll just bury everything deep down inside and then need years of therapy down the line.

“Sounds perfect,” he mumbles to himself as forces himself to get up. He stands at his shitty little sink and splashes water across his eyes. It doesn’t really make him forget anything, but for the moment, as the coolness drips down his cheeks, he does feel a touch better. For a few seconds, that is, until Neymar realizes he has a problem. The problem is, that while he has a plan, in all actuality, he has no idea how he’s going to go about going through with said plan.

Plans require steps, vague reasoning, some sort of detail. Maybe what Neymar has is an idea instead. Still, Neymar tells Rojo that he has a plan as they walk to breakfast.

Rojo chomps his gum enthusiastically, the wad of pink flashing between his white teeth, all the while clearly biting back rude things he wants to say in response. In all fairness, he does listen to Neymar stutter through the plan (or lack thereof). “That,” Rojo says, when Neymar looks at him expectantly, “sounds… super feasible. Totally. Yes.”

As supportive as always.

Neymar appreciates the pretense.

“Listen,” Neymar says, tugging on Rojo’s sleeve before they enter the cafeteria. Rojo looks at his hand pointedly and Neymar drops it. “I’m not saying, like, me and Messi are going to be best buds or anything. Just, you know.” He shrugs and worries a crack in the concrete with the tip of his shoe. “I want him to tolerate me, at least. We were doing okay before I fucked things by not telling him what really happened that day with Luis.”

They might have been doing better than okay. Truthfully Neymar can’t really remember how things were. He’d been afraid of Messi still—terrified at times—but he’d also been seeing a different side of him. But that was *before* Messi found out about Neymar’s silence. *After* Messi found out was another story.

Neymar winces.

He all of a sudden remembers something else. He remembers being alone with Messi and Luis, and the conversation they’d had after the guards had come to check on them. For whatever reason, Messi had been trying to comfort him? But Neymar had been so out of his mind that he’d snapped. Maybe even worse than keeping secrets from Messi was Neymar looking him right in the face and saying he was glad he wasn’t like him.

The way Messi had walked away from him after that…

Shit, fucking things up seems like an understatement now.

Rojo blows a bubble and shakes his head. There's a bit of chewing gum stuck to his lip and he looks like an idiot, but it doesn't disguise his dubiousness. “Ney,” he says, “I mean, you can try all you want, but I feel like I should say something around the lines of... his good opinion once lost, is lost forever. You feel me?” He smacks his lips together a few times, feeling the blob of pink on his lip and scraping it off with a fingernail.

Neymar tilts his head to the side as he deliberately attempts to hide his panic at those words "Um?” he asks, trying to remember what movie he’d heard that in, while also trying not to freak out as he realizes just how much Messi’s opinion actually means to him. “Did you just quote… something?”

Rojo rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

*****

 

Breakfast is like dinner the night before, and the less said about that, the better. Neymar’s kept his mouth shut and his eyes mainly on his food. He isn’t quite ready to try mending things with Messi in front of the group, so he just waits and tries not to feel alone as what little conversation there is washes over him.

When the meal’s over, the other inmates start to slowly filter out of the room. Dani struts by wearing purple sunglasses, followed by the rest of the Brazilians sans Rafa. Neymar wouldn’t have talked to him anyway, though he still feels a prick of sadness at the loss of his friend. They’re followed by Zlatan who is in deep conversation with Bravo and Alexis. Whatever Zlatan is saying appears to be of little interest to the remaining Chileans, but Neymar immediately puts his head down so as not to appear interested.

Agüero’s words echo in his head, and Neymar again starts to think of ways to get Messi to warm up to him. It’s why he’s not paying any attention to whoever walks up behind him.

“You’ve got a visitor coming,” says a gruff voice.

Neymar’s so inside his head, and frankly can’t imagine who would come to see him, that he ignores the guard and assumes the visitor is for one of the other people at the table. In all the time that he’s been with the Argentines, none of them have ever received visitors (that he knows of), but still, Neymar never even thinks that the guard is speaking to him. It’s not until he’s jabbed lightly in the back with a nightstick that he spins around in confusion.

“You,” the guard, Bauza, says. “Visitor. Let’s go.” Bauza, with his gray hair thinning, is one of the guards who is on the brink of retirement and tends to be given minuscule tasks by his superiors. Apparently on babysitting duty today, he looks bored, returning his club to his belt and crossing his arms. He flicks his gaze up to the rest of the group, nodding and acknowledging Messi. “I’ll return him in the same state I’m taking him,” Bauza adds, gripping Neymar’s sleeve and hauling him out of his seat.

Neymar slips a bit on the floor, entirely confused, but following obediently as it seems that none of the Argentines object. Neymar has one quick moment where he worries that maybe this is a bad idea, but then he sees that there are other prisoners being escorted out of the cafeteria just as he is.

He’s just never had a visitor.

Back when he’d arrived, and been processed, he’d had to fill out a visitor form. He’d been told it was the procedure, and the guard that had processed him had just rolled his eyes when Neymar had faltered over the form. Truly, Neymar couldn’t think of any of his old friends who’d want to visit, so he’d just listed his family members—even though he was sure they didn’t want to see him. Nobody except his father would possibly want to…

His father.

Neymar takes a deep breath as he’s marched toward down the hallway and toward the room used for visitations. He tries not to drag his feet, but an awful wave of nausea is sweeping through him. He can't imagine what his father could possibly want to see him about--after all this time, after letting Neymar take the fall, after not a single letter or visit in all these months...

Neymar allows Bauza to direct him, keeping his eyes down until they come to a stop in front of one of the tables. He doesn't look, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see someone sitting on the other side, a blurry figure with their hands folded in front of them.

"Sit," Bauza directs.

Neymar sits.

"Fifteen minutes," Bauza mumbles, moving over to the side where the other guards are now congregating.

Neymar takes a deep breath, trying to find his courage.

And then...

"Are you even going to look at me?"

Neymar jerks his head up in astonishment. "Rafaella?" He thinks he's hallucinating for a second. But no, his sister is sitting there, hands folded delicately in front of her, nails painted a light pink. Even in this dim light, he can see her clearly. "What?!" Neymar chokes out, overwhelmed. "How?!"

She smiles, eyes teary. "I've wanted to come for so long," she whispers, obviously having as much trouble talking as Neymar is.

They’ve always been close—it’s been them against the world—and this is probably the longest they’ve ever gone without speaking to each other.

She sniffles, pulling a tissue out of her pocket and hiding her face. When she pulls it away her eye make up is smeared all over it but she seems oblivious. ”I--," she starts, taking a deep breath, shuddering slightly. "How are you?"

"How am I?" Neymar repeats, still fixated on her. She looks exactly the same to him, so bright and beautiful, so pure and innocent. Her hair is down around her shoulders and she's dressed in a lovely yellow dress with a white collar made of lace or something. And she has a flowery cardigan over top.

She looks just the same--except as Neymar begins to get over his shock, he's able to look a closer. Her eyes have shadows underneath, though now they're even more difficult to see with the black makeup dripping down her face. And there are lines on her forehead that he could have sworn weren't there before.

He's been staring at dirty, dingy clothing and gray cell walls for so long that seeing color is fascinating. He almost can’t tear his eyes away from it, mesmerized by the bright swaths of color. And yet... while the dress is clearly clean, it shows obvious signs of wear. The yellow is more faded than Neymar had first realized, like it’d been washed too many times. And the lace looks like it’d been mended here and there. The same is true with the cardigan, and Neymar’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to look at her shoes to know they're in the same condition.

They're little things though, and Neymar drags his eyes back to hers and smiles to see her happiness through her tears.

"I'm so much better now that I'm seeing you," Neymar says honestly, reaching across to hold her hand. He's probably not allowed to do that, but none of the guards really seem to care. A quick look proves that they’re over on the side eating something out of a little white box. "I've missed you so much, so much more then I can say,” Neymar whispers. Their fingers tangle around the crumpled tissue. "Thank you for coming to visit."

He didn’t know how much he missed her, missed home, missed the outside, until this very moment.

"I wanted to come sooner," Rafaella says, squeezing. "But with work, I just couldn't. I even had to drop out,” she says, shaking her head. “I just didn’t have time for classes. I’ve been taking all these extra shifts where I can, trying to save up to pay people back and somehow have enough for after.” She shrugs helplessly. "I'm so sorry, Ney, I should have made it work. I should have found the time for you. I didn’t want you to think I abandoned you.”

She’s starting to get teary again.

"No, no," Neymar reassures her, leaning forward. "You're here now. That's enough. This is enough." There's so much more he can't tell her, so much he could never put into words. He hated that he'd had to leave her behind... and never told her the truth about what happened with Santos.

"And, Pa?" he asks, knowing that there’s a reason she hasn’t mentioned him.

Rafaella scoffs. "He emptied his accounts and took off after borrowing more from a shit ton of people. He’s somewhere on the other side of the world right now. Ma went with him, whether because he threatened her or because she wanted to--I can't tell you. But he took *everything* he could. And I know neither of us is surprised about that."

She looks down at their hands, biting her lip.

"Truthfully Ney,” she says, “if you hadn't been sending the money--you and your friend, I would be struggling a lot more than I am right now. People deserted us. Jo? Gil? I can’t tell you… People that I thought were on our side were actually just looking for an excuse to jump ship. And now they’re calling in all sorts of debts, and I’m trying—I’m really trying.“

Neymar grits his teeth, trying not to squeeze her hands as he hears that. Anger surges through him, a genuine (dare he say) murderous rage that his sister has had to deal with so many assholes.

Rafaella flicks her eyes upward again, smiling through her tears. "I didn't realize Pa was such an awful person. I should have seen it, should have noticed. It didn't take me long before I realized that you'd taken the blame for everything... God, what a fight I had with him! But I'm sorry, I shouldn't be complaining about things when you undoubtedly have it worse."

Now it's Neymar's turn to shake his head. "No, no,” he says again, wanting more than anything to make her feel better. But what can he say? Here she is, alone, working her tail off, trying to make ends meet. And he can’t do anything more to help her. And the fact that she’s still worried about him?? "I'm doing okay here," he says, lying through his teeth. "It's not so bad. Maybe the food isn't so great," he jokes, tilting his head back and forth.

When she laughs lightly, he genuinely smiles too.

“Aside from one really super great sandwich this guy Lavezzi brought me once after I missed lunch, I mean it's all really mushy food. I hate to say it. They need some new chefs in that kitchen. Like literally it's peas and potatoes and mashed mystery meat, you know?" He sticks out his tongue. "Blehhhhhh!"

Rafaella laughs again.

She wipes her face with the tissue, making a face when she sees the mascara all over it. She dabs a little bit under her eyes and tries to mop up the rest of it.

"I thought that might be the case," she says when she's finished, crumbling up the tissue and reaching for something on the bench next to her. "I brought this for you. I made them, so it's not like it's professional or anything. But I think they still taste okay. It's chocolate covered dulce de leche truffles,” she recites, handing him a familiar white box. "Originally I had two boxes,” she explains as she opens the lid and shows him candy that makes his mouth water, "one for your friend too—as a thank you. But then I had to bribe the guards with the other one, so I hope you can share this.”

Neymar makes a noise of understanding, flicking his eyes over to where the guards are laughing and eating. Then he swallows, the smell of chocolate wafting under his nose. "Thank you," he says, mouth welling up again immediately. He closes the box and tries to prevent himself from pigging out. If he’s not careful, the candy will be gone in the next few minutes. "But," he says, shaking his head, struck by something she’s said, "that's the second time you've mentioned my friend. Who are you talking about?"

Rafaella looks confused. "The name on the deposit was Messi," she says. She pulls a slip of paper out of her pocket. “Yes,” she says, consulting it one more time. “L. Messi.”

And Neymar has to struggle to hear the rest of what she says over the ringing in his ears.

“I wanted to ask you about him,” Rafaella continues. “The bank said that the money came from here, just as yours did," she says when Neymar stares at her in astonishment. "So unless Dani's changed his name, I assumed it was one of your new friends? Your cellmate maybe?"

"Messi sent you some money," Neymar repeats.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

Why would he do that??

Rafaella widens her eyes at his tone. "Not just *some* money, Ney," she says. "It's been coming every time yours does. And, honestly, it's more than yours." She stares at him. "Are--are you not friends? I thought, I don't know, I thought you told your cellmate you were helping me out or something. Is he cousin Dani's friend maybe? I thought about trying to see Dani while I was here, so maybe I can ask him?”

Neymar clears his throat to stall. Because how the fuck does he explain all of that. "Wow, no, he and Dani aren't friends. For that matter, me and Dani aren't on great terms. I mean, Dani helped me out a little when I first got here, but we run with different groups now," he says, hoping that he won't have to go into anything more. There’s no way he’s telling her that Dani basically traded him away without a second thought. “But Messi? Umm, wow," he says again, fucking clueless as to how to even put any of that into words.

Truthfully, he can't explain it to her because he can't explain it to himself. Why the fuck was Messi bothering to send her money? And why hadn't he said anything to Neymar about it ever?

Seriously.

What the fuck?

Rafaella starts to look uncomfortable. "Why then? Do you know him well, or something? I don't understand." She fiddles with the tissue again, starting to tear it apart. "I mean, shit, Ney. Should I send the money back?" She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I mean, I honestly can't," she says, opening them again and sounding ashamed. "I've used a lot of it."

Neymar sighs. He clutches the box of candy closer to him. "No," he finally says. "Messi... He," he wavers, thinking slowly as he remembers what Luis had told him, "has a little sister himself, so maybe that's it. And he knew I was sending you money." It doesn't make that much sense, but it's all Neymar can go with. "We sorta friends, I think," he finishes, knowing that's the best he's gonna be able to say.

How else can he say that Messi basically owns him? (And currently hates him.)

Rafaella makes a noise of understanding. "Oh," she says, sitting back and relaxing slightly. There's a smile playing around her lips. "So you're 'friends,'" she repeats, making air quotes around 'friends.' "That makes sense, I mean, I don't blame you for making friends. You’re gonna be here for awhile, and I want you to find some comfort. It’s natural that you find somebody you want to be with.”

Neymar turns red, because he did not mean it that way at all and the fact that she interpreted it in that way is really, really awful.

And embarrassing.

And awful.

Did he mention awful?

“Okay, first of all," he says, screwing his face up. "I'd prefer you didn't think about me making 'friends' like that." He does the air quotes too, pretending not to see her roll her eyes in response.

There are some things one's sister should not be thinking about. And that is definitely at the top of the list.

"Second of all," Neymar says, deliberately ignoring that all of a sudden he very clearly remembers the way Messi's fingers have caressed his face, touched his hair, said he belonged to him, "things are not like that. Messi's not into me like that." Because yes, Messi was possessive about him. But that wasn’t because Messi wanted him like that.

Messi had Luis.

He didn't want Neymar in that way. Besides, they were fighting at the moment, so Messi definitely didn’t want Neymar at all.

Rafaella looks amused. "Okay," she says waiting a minute, and when Neymar doesn't say anything right away, she looks at him expectantly. "And?" She taps her nails on the table top, clicking them and raising her eyebrows.

"And what?" Neymar asks.

Rafaella shakes her head. "Ney," she says fondly, "this is the point where you would have said that *you're* not into Messi like that either." She tilts her head and looks at him knowingly. "Except you didn't say that, did you? So...?"

"I'm not into Messi," Neymar says in a hurry, knowing he's flushing more now. Beneath the table, his knees knock together restlessly and he tries to get a grip on himself. He folds his hands together almost in imitation of the way Rafaella had when he'd first seen her. His nails aren't quite as nice, but he manages to relax his hands and not give away anything.

Truthfully, he's not into Messi.

Not really.

So, he's not lying, even if his flush says otherwise.

He just wants Messi to be his friend.

Not his 'friend.'

God, he's even doing the air quotes in his head now.

“Is he hot?” Rafaella asks, smirking a bit. She smiles triumphantly when Neymar thuds his forehead down onto the table. “Come on, tell me. What’s he look like? Is he your type? Or something completely different? I know you’re a bit, close-quartered here, right?” she asks, gaining steam. “So you’ve probably gotten pretty close with him.”

“Rafaella,” Neymar says, half muffled by the table. His tongue tastes dirty plastic and he raises his head back up and wipes his hand across his lips in an effort to clean his mouth. “I’m begging you to stop,” he says, sighing. “I promise that it’s not like that.” Trying to steer the conversation somewhere else, his gaze goes across the room. The guards look to be gearing up to collect them again, and a quick look at the clock shows that the fifteen minutes are almost up.

“We work in the same group down in manufacturing, eat in the same group in the cafeteria,” Neymar says, turning back to her and shrugging. “We hang out in the same group during our downtime. We’re friends. That’s it, and you can imply all you want, but there’s nothing more going on,” he says. “As for him sending the money, shit, I don’t know all his reasons. But, I’m definitely going to thank him for helping you.”

And he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to do that, but…

“Don’t forget to share the candy,” Rafaella says softly, interrupting his thoughts. She gestures toward the box. “Even if you’re not good friends, please share with him. I’m sorry I can’t thank him in person. From what they explained to me at the office, I’d have to be on his visitation list?” She shrugs. “But I hope you tell Messi how much I appreciate it. How much it’s really helping me.” She cocks her head. “Messi, hmm. Italian?” she guesses. “Light skin, dark hair?”

Neymar warily nods at the description, not sure where she’s going with it. “Short. A bit of a beard, depending on the day. Usually a quiet guy. Argentine, though,” he corrects. “Maybe originally Italian, I don’t know, but he’s Argentine. I hang out with mainly Argentines. One guy’s Uruguayan,” he adds. “He’s probably my best friend here, Luis. I hope you can meet him someday. I think you’d like him.”

He’s about to tell her more about Luis, more about their friendship, because that at least he can talk about honestly and freely—but Bauza starts heading in their direction. “I hope you can come again,” he says quickly, squeezing her hand one last time. “If you can,” he blurts out, anxious now that he’ll have to say goodbye. It’s not exactly like the courtroom all over again, but it’s somewhat close.

Still, besides the pain in the pit of his stomach, there’s also some happiness. Happiness that she came to see him, that she knew the truth about what had happened to Santos.

“I will,” Rafaella says. She stands up before Bauza can reach them, smiling politely in the guard’s direction, any anger over the guards taking her candy forgotten. Bauza looks a little surprised at the reaction, his stony face morphing into something a little more friendly. “I know it’s probably not allowed,” Rafaella begins, ducking her head and crumbling the used tissue in her hands, “but would it be alright if I hugged him goodbye.”

She must see Bauza’s reluctance, but she powers on. “Just once,” she begs. “I haven’t seen my brother in so long.” Bauza looks between them, mulling her request over in his head. Finally, he waves his hand between them, then folding his arms and waiting. Obviously, he cannot leave them alone or give them any more privacy.

Rafaella doesn’t need any prompting. Neymar’s still sitting down on the bench, but it doesn’t stop her. “Goodbye, Ney,” she whispers into his ear, arms coming around him and squeezing tighter than ever before. “I’ll see you again next month, alright?”

Neymar barely has time to answer her before her arms are gone, and she’s striding off through the exit with the other visitors. Neymar watches her go, yellow sunshine and flowers brightening each patch of dirty floor for a few seconds before she disappears altogether.

Bauza sends him off in the opposite direction, not bothering to escort him back. It doesn’t really matter. Neymar knows it’s free time and everyone is out in the yard. His feet know the way, but Neymar detours, stopping by his cell first, the box of candy clutched to his stomach. He sets it on his bed, next to his pillow, only daring to open it one time to let the smell of chocolate drift throughout the room.

He closes the lid, unable to keep the smile off his face.

Perhaps even better than the chocolate, however, was the hug. Neymar doesn’t know how to explain it, but even as he goes out into the hallway, even as the dingy walls close in around him, he continues out toward the yard. He can feel Rafaella’s arms still around him. He can feel their warmth and their love.

It’s what gives him the strength to rejoin the group.

He’s going to fix things with Messi.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rojo, of course, references Jane Austen’s "Pride and Prejudice": 'My good opinion once lost is lost forever.'
> 
> Something big was supposed to happen this chapter and I had to push it...

**Author's Note:**

> Well this has eaten my brain so I hope people enjoy it :)


End file.
